ThelDlQT 


atfHOME 


JOHN   KENDRICK    BANGS 


The  Idiot  at  Home 

By 

John  Kendrick  Bangs 

Illustrated  by 
F.  T.   Richards 


NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

HARPER     <5r*    BROTHERS    Publishers 

1900 


BY   THE  SAME   AUTHOR. 


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Copyright,  1900,  by  JOHN  KENDRICK  P.ANGS. 


Ail  rights  reserved. 


TO 

'MISS  BANGS  OF  LONDON" 

FROM 

MR.  BARNES   OF   NEW  YORK 


M12032 


C  O  N  T  E  N  T  S 


PAGE 

I.  BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION 1 

II.  A  LITTLE  DINNER  TO  SOME  OLD  FRIENDS  .     .  21 

III.  IN  THE  LIBRARY 4:J> 

IV.  As  TO  A  SMALL  DINNER 63 

V.  ON  THE  MAINTENANCE  OF  AN   ATTIC      ...  84 

VI.  THE  IDIOT'S  GARDEN 105 

VII.  HOUSEHOLD  POETRY 125 

VIII.  SOME  CONSIDERATION  OF  THE   HIRED  MAN.     .  145 

IX.  ON  SOCIAL  ACCOUNTS 105 

X.  As  TO  SANTA  GLAUS 185 

XI.  As  TO  NEW-YEAR'S  DAY 205 

XII.  SOME  DOMESTIC  INVENTIONS 228 

XIII.  A  SUBURBAN  COMPLICATION     ....          .  249 

XIV.  SOME  CONSIDERATION  OF  THE  MOTH  .               .  209 
XV.  SOME  CONSIDERATION  OF  THE  BURGLAR.     .     .  288 

XVI.  CONCLUSION  .  301 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 
JOHN    KENDRICK    BANGS  .........    Frontispiece 

"  POSSESSED    A    LIBRARY    OF    FIRST    EDITIONS  "...          5 

u  'THEY  NEVKR  HAD  TIIK  FUN  OF  BUYING  THEM'"     .       9 

"  '  GUARANTEED      TO      HANG      ONTO      A      GARMENT      IN      A 
GALE  '  "     .............. 

"  '  AND     SOME     PEOPLE    SAY     WAGNER     IS     MORE     IMPOR 


TANT  THAN  THAT 


'" 


"TOMMY  AND  MOLLIE  GAVE  THE  COOK  A  GREAT  DEAL 
OF  TROUBLE  "    .......    -  ..... 

"  '  LET    THE     FATHERS    LOOK    AFTER     THE     CHILDREN    AT 

NIGHT'"  ..............     29 

"A  LITTLE  FIGURE  CLAD  IN  WHITE"    ......     35 

"  '  I'D  RATHER  BE  SPANKED  THAN  NOT  NOTICED  AT 

ALL'"      ..............  39 

'"l  DID  NOT  SMOKE  UNTIL  I  WAS  FIFTY'"  ....  45 

"'SMOKING  KEEPS  INSECTS  FROM  THE  PLANTS'".  .  .  49 
"THE  BIBLIOMANIAC  WAS  INVESTIGATING  THE  CON 

TENTS   OF   THE    LOWER   SHELVES  "     ......       53 

'"l  PREFERRED  TO  PAY  THE  $49.50  '"  ......     57 

"THE  COOK  HAD  TAKEN  WINGS  UNTO  HERSELF"  .  .  65 
"'TWO  BIG  BOXES  OF  POTATOES,  A  CAN  OF  FRENCH 

PEASE,  AND  A  BOTTLE  OF  SARSAPARILLA  '  "  .  .  .  69 
"'THE  PEOPLE  DOWN-STAIRS  BORROWED  OUR  DINING- 

ROOM  CHAIRS'"   ...........  75 

vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGB 

"  '  WHO  WAS  IT  ?'  ASKED  MRS.  IDIOT  " 79 

"'l  SET  OFF  A  GIANT  CRACKER  UNDER  HIS  CHAIR*"  87 
'"WOULD  HANG  THAT  PORTRAIT  UPON  THE  WALL  OF 

MY  BEDROOM'" 91 

"  '  STARTED  TO  PREACH  WITH  THE  RECIPE  FOR  A 

WASHINGTON  PIE  '  " 95 

"'A  LITTLE  BUNDLE  OF  MY  OWN  LETTERS'"  .  .  .  101 

'"WE  SPRINKLED  IT  IN  PERSON'" 107 

'"HE  DISCOVERED  THE  ONE  PERFECT  STALK5".  .  .  Ill 
"  '  IT  WOULD  BE  DEUCEDLY  AWKWARD  ...  IF  THEY 

WOULD   EXPLODE    IN    THE    MOUTH     OF    THE    PERSON 

WHO  WAS  EATING  THEM1" 115 

'"SHE   COULD   SLAM   THEM    DOWN    ON   THE   HEARTH 
STONES  LIKE  TORPEDOES'" 119 

"  '  THE  JOYS  AND  WOES  OF  THE   TOILERS  WHO  MINED 

IT'" 127 

"'FOR  THOUGH  I'M  BUT  A  CARPET-TACK,'"  ETC.  .  .  131 
"  '  I  SHOULD  HESITATE  TO  TRY  TO  DRIVE  A  CANAL- 
BOAT '" 137 

" '  i  HAVEN'T  EVER  HAD  A  HOME  ;  I'VE  ALWAYS 

BOARDED'" 141 

"  '  I  FEEL  THAT  I  COULD  GO  OUT  AND  MOW  THREE 

ACRES  OF  GRASS'" 147 

*'  '  HE  WOULD  GO    OUT  DAY  AFTER  DAY  AND    SIT    DOWN 

BESIDE  IT'" 151 

"'HE  SHOVELS  OFF  A  FOOT-PATH'" 155 

"'SPEND  A  WHOLE  DAY  ON  ONE  WINDOW'"    .     .     .  161 

"'WELL,  I'M  FOND  OF  GOLF'" 167 

"'AN    ANTHROPOLOGICAL    TEA'" 171 

"'THE  BABY  is  ROCKED  TO  SLEEP  EVERY  NIGHT'"  .     175 

"  '  POOR     DICK     DAWKINS     ISN'T     TAKEN      CARE     OF     AT 

ALL'" 179 

viii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGB 

"  'DR.  PREACHLY   ONLY  GOT  EIGHT  PAIRS  LAST  XMAS'  "       189 
"  '  A    CHINA     DOLL    TO    THK     DAUGHTER    OF    A    CARPEN 
TER '  " f 193 

"'  HULLO,  SONNY  !  HAD  A  GOOD  TIME?'"  ....  197 
"  '  I  GAVE  MY  DOLLY  AWAY  TO-DAY  '  " 201 

"'l  FELT  AS  IF  I  HAD  SWALLOWED  AN  OVERSHOE'"  213 

"  '  I  DON'T  QUITE  CATCH  YOUR  DRIFT  '  " 207 

"  '  I  FOUND  EIGHT  SANDWICHES  AND  A  PINT  OF  SALTED 

ALMONDS'" 219 

'"THEY  WERE  FOUND  SOME  DAYS  LATER  WHEN  THE 

ROOM  WAS  PUT  IN  ORDER'" 223 

"'THERE'S  NOT  MUCH  MONEY  IN  STOCKS'".  .  .  .  231 
"  '  A  NICE  LITTLE  BASKET-HAT  ON  HER  HEAD  TO  HOLD 

THE  PINS  IN  '  " 235 

"'AN  ELECTRIC  NOTICE  TO  QUIT'" 239 

FINDING  OUT  WHAT  IS  BEING  COOKED  FOR  DINNER  .  245 
"'COURTING  HIS  BE.ST  GIRL  ON  SOME  OTHER  FELLOW'S 

STONE  WALL'" 251 

'"HOLDING  UP  A  GREAT  OSAGE  ORANGE'"  ....  255 
'"THE  PICTURE  OF  A  HEART  WITH  AN  ARROW  DRAWN 

THROUGH  IT '  " 259 

U'IT    TOOK    MY    HIRED    MAN    TWO   WEEKS    TO    SCRUB    IT 

OUT'" 265 

" '  AN  UNPAID  GROCER'S  BILL  BECOMES  AN  ABSOLUTE 

PLEASURE'" 271 

"  '  THE  LION,  THE  ELEPHANT,  THE  TIGER,  ALL  HAVE 

THEIR  WORK  TO  DO  '  " 275 

"  '  THEY  EAT  UP  MY  NEW  CLOTHES  '  " 279 

"  *  WASTED    MY    ENERGY    UPON    THE    UNRESPONSIVE 

AIR'" 283 

ix 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 


BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION 

"  MY  dear/'  said  the  Idiot  one  morn 
ing,  as  he  and  his  good  wife  and  the  two 
little  ones,  Mollie  and  Tommy,  sat  down 
at  the  breakfast-table,  "  now  that  we  are 
finally  settled  in  our  new  house  I  move  we 
celebrate.  Let's  give  a  dinner  to  my  old 
friends  of  Mrs.  Smithers's;  they  were 
nice  old  people,  and  I  should  like  to  get 
them  together  again.  I  saw  Dr.  Pedagog 
in  the  city  yesterday,  and  he  inquired 
most  affectionately,  not  to  say  anxiously, 
about  the  children." 

"  Why  should  he  be  anxious  about  the 
children?"  asked  Mrs.  Idiot,  placidly, 

A  1 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

as  she  sweetened  her  husband's  coffee. 
"  Does  he  suspect  them  of  lacking  com 
pleteness  or  variety?" 

The  Idiot  tapped  his  forehead  signifi 
cantly. 

"  He  didn't  know  whether  they  take 
after  you  or  after  me,  but  I  relieved  his 
mind  on  that  score/'  he  said.  "  I  told 
him  that  they  didn't  take  after  anybody 
that  either  of  us  ever  knew.  They  have 
started  in  on  a  line  of  Idiocy  that  is  en 
tirely  their  own.  He  seemed  very  much 
pleased  when  I  said  that,  and  observed 
that  he  was  glad  to  hear  it." 

Mrs.  Idiot  laughed. 

"  It  was  very  nice  of  the  Doctor  to  ask 
about  them,  but  I  am  a  little  afraid  he 
wants  to  take  a  hand  in  their  bringing 
up,"  she  said. 

"No  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  Pedagog  always  was  anxious  to  experi 
ment.  Many  a  time  I  have  suspected  him 
of  having  designs  even  on  me." 

"  Mrs.  Pedagog  told  me  last  year  that 
he  had  devised  an  entirely  new  system  of 
home  training,"  observed  Mrs.  Idiot, 
"  and  they  both  regretted  that  they  had 
no  children  of  their  own  to  try  it  on." 

"  And  of  course  you  offered  to  lend 
2 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

Tommy  to  them?7'  said  the  Idiot,  with  a 
sly  glance  at  his  son,  who  was  stowing 
away  his  oatmeal  at  a  rate  that  bade  fair 
to  create  a  famine. 

"  Of  course/7  said  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  He's 
got  to  get  raw  material  somewhere,  and 
I  thought  Tommy  would  be  just  the 
thing." 

"Well,  I  ain't  a-goin',"  said  Tommy, 
helping  himself  liberally  and  for  the  third 
time  to  the  oatmeal. 

"  My  son,"  said  the  Idiot,  with  a  mock 
show  of  sternness,  "  if  your  mother 
chooses  to  lend  you  to  any  one  it  is  not 
for  you  to  say  that  you  i  ain't  a-goin'.'  It 
may  be  that  I  shall  interfere  to  the  extent 
of  demanding  to  know  what  security  for 
your  safe  return  is  offered,  but  otherwise 
neither  you  nor  I  shall  intervene.  What 
your  mother  says  is  law  for  you  as 
well  as  for  me.  Please  understand  that, 
Thomas." 

"All  right,  pa,"  said  Tommy ;  and  then 
he  added  in  an  undertone,  presumably  to 
the  butter,  "  But  I  ain't  a-goin',  just  the 
same." 

"  I'll  go,"  said  Mollie,  who  rather  liked 
the  idea  of  being  lent  to  somebody,  since 
it  involved  a  visit  to  some  strange  and 
3 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

therefore  fascinating  spot  away  from 
home.  "  Lend  me  to  somebody,  will  you, 
mamma  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma,  lend  Mollie  to  'em,"  said 
Tommy,  with  a  certain  dry  enthusiasm, 
"  and  then  maybe  you  can  borrow  a  boy 
from  somebody  else  for  me  to  play  with. 
I  don't  see  why  you  don't  swap  her  off  for 
a  boy,  anyhow.  I  like  her  well  enough, 
but  what  you  ever  wanted  to  buy  her  for 
in  the  beginning  I  don't  know.  Girls  isn't 
any  good." 

"  Thomas,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  you  talk 
too  much,  and,  what  is  more,  you  say  vain 
things  which,  some  day  you  will  regret. 
When  you  get  older  you  will  recall  this 
dictum  of  yours,  that  '  girls  isn't  any 
good,'  with  a  blush  of  shame,  and  re 
member  that  your  mother  was  once  a 
girl." 

"  Well,  she's  outgrown  it,"  said  Tom 
my;  and  then  reverting  to  his  father's 
choice  of  words,  he  added,  "  What  is 
dictums,  anyhow?" 

"  Pooh !"  cried  the  little  girl.  "  Smarty 
don't  know  what  dictums  is !" 

"  Suppose  you  two  young  persons  sub 
side  for  a  few  minutes!"  interrupted  the 
Idiot.  "  I  wish  to  talk  to  your  mother, 
4 


"  POSSESSED    A    LIBRARY    OF   FIRST   EDITIONS " 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

and  I  haven't  got  all  day.  You'll  be 
wanting  some  bread  and  butter  to-morrow, 
and  I  must  go  to  town  and  earn  it." 

"All  right,  pa/'  said  Tommy.  "I 
ain't  got  anything  to  say  that  I  can't  say 
to  myself.  I'd  rather  talk  to  myself, 
anyhow.  You  can  be  as  sassy— 

"  Thomas !"  said  the  Idiot,  severely. 

"All  right,  pa,"  said  Tommy ;  and  with 
a  side  remark  to  the  cream-jug,  that  he 
still  thought  Mollie  ought  to  be  swapped 
off  for  something,  it  didn't  matter  what 
as  long  as  it  wasn't  another  girl,  the  boy 
lapsed  into  a  deep  though  merely  tempo 
rary  silence. 

"  You  said  you'd  like  to  give  a  dinner 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pedagog  and  the  others," 
said  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  I  quite  approve." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  nice,"  returned 
the  Idiot.  "  It  has  been  more  than  six 
years  since  we  were  all  together." 

"  You  wouldn't  prefer  having  them  at 
breakfast,  would  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Idiot, 
with  a  smile.  "  I  remember  hearing  you 
say  once  that  breakfast  was  your  best 
time." 

"  How  long  is  six  years,  pa  ?"  asked 
Tommy. 

"Really,  Thomas,"  replied  the  Idiot, 
7 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

severely,  "  you  are  the  most  absurd  creat 
ure.  How  long  is  six  years !" 

"  I  meant  in  inches/7  said  Tommy,  un 
abashed.  "  You  always  told  me  to  ask 
you  when  I  wanted  to  know  things.  Of 
course,  if  you  don't  know — 

"  It's  more'n  a  mile,  I  guess,"  observed 
Mollie,  with  some  superiority  of  manner. 
"Ain't  it,  pa?" 

The  Idiot  glanced  at  his  wife  in  de 
spair. 

"  I  don't  think,  my  dear,  that  I  am  as 
strong  at  breakfast  as  I  used  to  be,"  said 
he.  "  There  was  a  time  when  I  could 
hold  my  own,  but  things  seem  to  have 
changed.  Make  it  dinner ;  and,  Tommy, 
when  you  have  deep  problems  to  solve, 
like  how  long  is  six  years  in  inches,  try  to 
work  them  out  for  yourself.  It  will  fix 
the  results  more  firmly  in  your  mind." 

"All  right,  pa,"  replied  Tommy;  "I 
thought  maybe  you  knew.  I  thought  you 
said  you  knew  everything." 

In  accordance  with  the  Idiot's  sugges 
tion  the  invitations  were  sent  out.  It  was 
a  most  agreeable  proposition  as  far  as 
his  wife  was  concerned,  for  the  Idiot's  old 
associates,  his  fellow-boarders  at  Mrs. 
Smithers-Pedagog's  "  High-Class  Home 
8 


'THEY  NEVER  HAD  THE  FUN  OF  BUYING  THEM' 


THE  IDIOT  AT   HOME 

for  Single  Gentlemen,"  had  proved  to  be 
the  stanchest  of  his  friends.  They  had, 
as  time  passed  on,  gone  their  several 
ways.  The  Poet  had  made  himself  so 
famous  that  even  his  bad  things  got  into 
print;  the  Bibliomaniac,  by  an  unexpect 
ed  stroke  of  fortune,  had  come  into  posses 
sion  of  his  own  again,  and  now  possessed 
a  library  of  first  editions  that  auctioneers 
looked  upon  with  envious  eyes,  and  which 
aroused  the  hatred  of  many  another  col 
lector.  The  Doctor  had  prospered  equal 
ly,  and  was  now  one  of  the  most  successful 
operators  for  appendicitis;  in  fact,  could 
now  afford  to  refuse  all  other  practice 
than  that  involved  in  that  delicate  and 
popular  line  of  work.  The  genial  gentle 
man  who  occasionally  imbibed  had  not 
wholly  reformed,  but,  as  the  Idiot  put  it, 
had  developed  into  one  who  occasionally 
did  not  imbibe.  Mr.  Brief  had  become 
an  assistant  district  attorney,  and  was 
prominently  mentioned  for  a  judgeship, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pedagog  lived  placid 
ly  along  together,  never  for  an  instant 
regretting  the  inspiration  which  led  them 
to  economize  by  making  two  into  one.  In 
short,  time  and  fortune  had  dealt  kindly 
with  all,  even  with  Mary,  the  housemaid, 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

who  was  now  general  manager  of  the  nur 
sery  in  the  Idiot's  household. 

The  home  life  of  "  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Idiot "  had  been  all  that  either  of  the 
young  people  could  have  wished  for,  and 
prosperity  had  waited  upon  them  in  all 
things.  The  Idiot  had  become  a  partner 
in  the  business  of  his  father-in-law,  and 
even  in  bad  times  had  managed  to  save 
something,  until  now,  with  two  children, 
aged  five  and  six,  he  found  himself  the 
possessor  of  his  own  home  in  a  suburban 
city.  It  had  been  finished  only  a  month 
when  the  proposed  dinner  was  first  men 
tioned,  and  the  natural  pride  of  its  master 
and  mistress  was  delightful  to  look  upon. 

"  Why,  do  you  know,  my  dear,"  said 
the  Idiot  one  evening,  on  his  return  from 
town,  "  they  are  talking  of  asking  me  to 
resign  from  the  club  because  they  say  I 
am  offensive  about  this  place,  and  Wat 
son  says  my  conversation  has  become  a 
bore  to  everybody  because  the  burden  of 
my  song  yesterday  was  pots  and  pans  and 
kettles  and  things  like  that?" 

"  I  suppose  clubmen  are  not  interested 
in  pots  and  pans  and  kettles  and  things," 
Mrs.  Idiot  observed.  "  Some  people 
aren't,  you  know." 

12 


'  GUARANTEED   TO   HANG   ONTO   A   GARMENT   IN    A   (JALE 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"Not  interested?"  echoed  the  Idiot. 
"  What  kind  of  people  can  they  be  not  to 
be  interested  in  pots  and  pans  and  kettles 
and  things  ?  I  guess  it's  because  of  their 
dense  ignorance." 

"  They  never  had  the  fun  of  buying 
them,  perhaps,"  suggested  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  Possibly,"  assented  the  Idiot.  "  And 
I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Pollie,  dear,"  he 
added,  "  if  they  had  had  that  fun  just 
once,  instead  of  squandering  their  savings 
on  clothes  and  the  theatre,  and  on  horses, 
you'd  find  every  blessed  one  of  those 
chaps  thronging  the  hardware  shops  all 
day  and  spending  their  money  there. 
Why,  do  you  know  I  even  enjoyed  get 
ting  the  clothes-pins,  and  what  is  more, 
it  was  instructive.  I  never  knew  before 
what  countless  varieties  of  clothes-pins 
there  were.  There's  the  plain  kind  of 
commerce  that  look  like  a  pair  of  legs 
with  a  polo-cap  on.  I  was  brought  up  on 
those,  and  I  used  to  steal  them  when  I 
was  a  small  boy,  to  act  as  understudies 
for  Noah  and  Shem  and  Ham  and  Ja- 
pheth  in  my  Noah's  ark.  Then  there's 
the  patent  kind  with  a  spring  to  it  that  is 
guaranteed  to  hang  onto  a  garment  in  a 
gale  if  it  has  to  let  go  of  the  rope.  Very 
15 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

few  people  realize  the  infinite  variety  of 
the  clothes-pin,  and  when  I  try  to  tell 
these  chaps  at  the  club  about  it  they  yawn 
and  try  to  change  the  subject  to  things 
like  German  opera  and  impressionism 
and  international  complications." 

"  How  foolish  of  them !"  laughed  Mrs. 
Idiot.  "  The  idea  of  preferring  to  talk 
of  Wagner  when  one  can  discourse  upon 
clothes-pins !" 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  sarcastic,"  re 
joined  the  Idiot.  But  you  needn't  be; 
if  you'd  only  reason  it  out  you'd  see  at 
once  that  my  view  is  correct.  Anybody 
can  talk  about  Wagner.  Any  person  who 
knows  a  picture  from  a  cable-car  can  talk 
with  seeming  intelligence  on  art,  and  even 
a  member  of  Congress  can  talk  about  in 
ternational  complications  off-hand  for 
hours;  but  how  many  of  these  people 
know  about  clothes-pins  ?" 

"  Very  few,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  meekly. 

"  Very  few,  indeed,"  observed  the 
Idiot.  "'And  the  same  way  with  egg- 
beaters.  I'll  bet  you  a  laundry-stove  that 
if  I  should  write  to  the  Recorder  to-mor 
row  morning,  and  ask  a  question  about 
Wagner,  the  musical  editor  would  give  me 
an  answer  within  twenty-four  hours;  but 
16 


"  '  AND  SOME  PEOPLE  SAY  WAGNER  IS  MORE  IMPORTANT 
THAU  THAT'" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

with  reference  to  egg-beaters  it  would 
take  'em  a  week  to  find  out.  And  that's 
just  the  trouble.  The  newspapers  are 
filled  up  with  stuff  that  everybody  knows 
about,  but  they  don't  know  a  thing  about 
other  things  on  the  subject  of  which  the 
public  is  ignorant." 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  reflectively, 
"that  that  is  probably  due  to  the  fact  that 
they  consider  Wagner  more  important 
than  an  egg-beater." 

"Well,  then,  they  don't  know,  that's 
all,"  rejoined  the  Idiot,  rising  and  walk 
ing  out  into  the  kitchen  and  taking  the 
fascinating  object  over  which  he  was  wax 
ing  so  enthusiastic  from  the  dresser  draw 
er.  "  Just  look  at  that !"  he  cried,  turn 
ing  the  cog-wheel  which  set  the  three  in 
tersecting  metal  loops  whizzing  like  a 
squirrel  in  its  wheel-cage.  "  Just  look  at 
that !  It's  beautiful,  and  some  people  say 
Wagner  is  more  important  than  that." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Idiot,  "  that  I  have  a  leaning  that  way 
myself.  Of  course,  I  admit  the  charm  of 
the  egg-beater,  but — 

"  Tell  me  one  thing,"  demanded  the 
Idiot.  "  Can  you  get  along  without  Wag 
ner?" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  Why,  yes/7  Mrs.  Idiot  replied,  "  if  I 
have  to." 

"  And  can  you  get  along  without  an 
egg-beater  ?"  he  cried,  triumphantly. 

The  evidence  was  overwhelming,  and 
Mrs.  Idiot,  with  an  appreciative  ebulli 
tion  of  mirth,  acknowledged  herself  de 
feated,  and  so  charmingly  withal,  that  the 
next  day  when  her  husband  returned 
home  he  brought  her  two  tickets  for  the 
opera  of  Siegfried  as  a  reward  for  her 
graceful  submission. 

"  I  could  have  bought  ten  dozen  mumn- 
rings  for  the  same  money,"  said  he,  as  he 
gave  them  to  her,  "  but  people  who  know 
when  to  give  in,  and  do  give  in  as  amiably 
as  you  do,  my  dear,  deserve  to  be  reward 
ed  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  when  you  use  these 
tickets,  if  you'll  ask  me,  I  think  I'll 
escort  you  to  Siegfried  myself." 


II 

A    LITTLE    DINNER    TO    SOME    OLD    FRIENDS 

TEN  days  later  all  was  excitement  at 
the  Idiot's  new  home.  Tommy  and  Mol- 
lie  were  in  a  state  bordering  upon  frenzy, 
and  gave  the  cook  a  great  deal  of  trouble, 
requesting  a  taste  of  this,  that,  and  the 
other  thing,  which  she  was  preparing  for 
the  dinner  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pedagog,  the 
Bibliomaniac,  and  the  others.  Inwardly, 
too,  they  were  somewhat  wrathful,  for 
they  could  not  understand  why  they  were 
not  permitted  to  dine  with  their  parents 
as  usual. 

"  I  guess  maybe  it's  your  manners  that 
keeps  you  away,  Tommy,"  said  Mollie. 

aHoh!"  said  Tommy.  "It  can't  be 
that,  because  pa  says  I  ain't  got  any.  It's 
because  you're  too  young  to  be  intro- 
doosed  into  society,  and  I've  got  to  stay 
up-stairs  and  look  after  you.  If  you 
weren't  a  girl!" 

21 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

Here  Tommy  clenched  his  fists  and 
looked  unutterable  things.  Mollie  shud 
dered  and  was  glad  she  was  a  girl  as  she 
imagined  the  awful  things  Tommy  would 
do  to  her  had  she  been  a  boy. 

"  Neither  of  'em's  it,  Tommy,"  she 
said,  in  a  conciliatory  manner.  "  It's  be 
cause  they  ain't  got  enough  dining-room 
chairs,  that's  why.  I  know,  because  I 
counted  'em,  and  there's  only  eight,  and 
there's  nine  people  comin'." 

"  I  guess  maybe  that's  it,"  said  Tom 
my,  pacified  somewhat.  "  And  anyhow, 
I  don't  care.  I  saw  that  piece  of  paper 
ma  gave  Jennie,  and  she  wrote  down  all 
the  things  they're  goin'  to  have,  and  it's 
goin'  to  be  two  hours  between  the  soup 
and  the  ice-cream.  I  couldn't  ever  wait 
that  long  for  the  ice-cream.  I  don't  see 
why  they  don't  begin  with  ice-cream." 

"  I  guess  maybe  we're  better  off  as  it 
is,"  said  Mollie.  "  Popper  and  mommer 
ain't  likely  to  forget  us,  and,  besides,  we 
can  talk." 

And  with  this  comforting  reflection  the 
little  ones  retired  to  their  nursery  con 
tented  in  mind  and  spirit — and  they 
didn't  suffer  a  bit.  Their  "  popper  and 
mommer  "  didn't  forget  them.  The  ice- 
22 


"  TOMMY    AND    MOLLIE    GAVE    THE    COOK   A    GRBAT    DEAL 
OF    TROUBLE  " 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

cream  was  excellent,  and  they  had  their 
share  of  it  almost  before  the  guests  began 
with  their  oysters. 

At  seven  o'clock  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peda- 
gog  had  arrived,  and  at  seven-ten  all  the 
invited  guests  were  present. 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  my  wife/'  Mr. 
Pedagog  whispered  in  his  host's  ear,  "  I 
should  have  been  late,  too." 

"  Don't  apologize,  old  man,"  replied  the 
Idiot,  gripping  the  Schoolmaster's  hand 
warmly.  "  I  sometimes  go  to  dinners  on 
time  myself." 

In  a  few  moments  dinner  was  an 
nounced,  and  shortly  after  all  were  seat 
ed,  and  in  memory  of  old  times  the  guests 
naturally  waited  for  the  Idiot  to  begin. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  as  he 
squeezed  the  juice  from  a  luscious  lemon 
over  an  unprotesting  oyster,  at  the  same 
time  glancing  affectionately  over  the  com 
pany,  "  I  haven't  felt  so  much  at  home 
for  years  as  I  do  now." 

"  Not  very  complimentary  to  your 
wife,"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  he  means,"  observed 
Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  And  I  have  so  many  other  opportuni 
ties  to  compliment  her,"  said  the  Idiot. 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  But  really,  Mrs.  Pedagog,"  lie  added, 
addressing  the  good  lady  who  sat  at  his 
right,  "  I  feel  absolutely  contented  to 
night.  All  the  good  things  of  the  past 
and  of  the  present  seem  to  be  concentrated 
about  this  board — except  the  three  up 
stairs,  who  can't  very  well  be  here." 

"  Three?"  asked  Mr.  Pedagog.  "I 
thought  there  were  only  two — 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  Tommy 
and  Mollie,  but  there  is  Mary,  your  old 
housemaid.  We  can't  very  well  ask  them 
to  dine  with  us,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  see  why  Tommy  and  Mollie 
can't  be  invited,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog,  much 
to  the  Idiot's  surprise,  it  seemed  so  like 
a  violation  of  his  system,  as  it  might  be 
presumed  to  be. 

"  You  believe  in  having  children  at 
table,  then,  Mr.  Pedagog?"  asked  Mrs. 
Idiot. 

"  Most  certainly,"  said  the  Schoolmas 
ter.  Mrs.  Pedagog  glanced  smilingly  at 
Mrs.  Idiot,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Oh,  these 
men !" 

,  "  I  certainly  do  approve  of  having  chil 
dren  at  table  on  all  occasions,"  he  con 
tinued.  "  How  else  are  they  to  learn  how 
to  conduct  themselves  ?  The  discipline  of 
26 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

the  nursery  is  apt  to  be  lax,  and  it  is  my 
belief  that  many  of  the  bad  table  manners 
of  the  present  -  day  child  are  due  to  the 
sense  of  freedom  which  eating  dinner  in 
the  nursery  naturally  inculcates." 

"  There  is  something  in  what  you  say/' 
said  the  Idiot.  u  Tommy,  for  instance, 
never  learned  to  throw  a  French  pancake 
across  the  table  at  his  sister  by  watching 
his  mother  and  myself  here  in  the  dining- 
room,  yet  in  the  freedom  of  the  nursery  I 
have  known  it  done." 

" Precisely,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog.  "That 
very  little  incident  illustrates  my  point 
exactly.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that  in 
the  nursery  the  offence  seemed  less  hei 
nous  than  it  would  had  it  occurred  in 
the  dining-room,  and  hence  did  not  meet 
with  the  full  measure  of  punishment  that 
it  deserved." 

"  I  have  forgotten  exactly  what  was 
done  on  that  occasion,"  said  the  Idiot, 
calmly.  "It  is  my  impression  that  I 
compelled  Thomas  to  eat  the  pancake." 

"  I  am  sure  I  never  heard  of  the  inci 
dent  before,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  her  cheeks 
growing  very  red.  "  He  didn't  really, 
did  he,  dear*?" 

"  By  jove !"  cried  the  Idiot,  snapping 

B  27 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

his  forefinger  against  his  thumb,  "  what 
a  traitor  I  am,  to  be  sure.  I  promised 
Thomas  never  to  tell,  and  here  I've  given 
the  poor  little  chap  away ;  but  the  boy  was 
excusable,  I  assure  you  all — that  is,  he 
was  excusable  in  a  sense.  Mollie  had 
previously  hit  him  in  the  eye  with  a  salt 
ed  almond,  and— 

"  It  is  quite  evident,"  put  in  Mrs. 
Pedagog,  her  womanly  sympathy  leading 
her  to  rush  to  the  aid  of  Mrs.  Idiot,  who 
seemed  somewhat  mortified  over  the 
Idiot's  confidences,  "  that  you  were  not  at 
home,  my  dear.  I  have  myself  observed 
that  extraordinary  episodes  of  this  nature 
generally  happen  when  it  is  the  father 
who  is  left  in  charge  of  the  children.'7 

"  Quite  right,  Mrs.  Pedagog,"  said  the 
Doctor,  nodding  his  head  gravely.  "  I 
have  noticed  the  same  thing  in  my  profes 
sional  practice.  As  long  as  the  mother  is 
about  discipline  is  maintained,  but  once 
leave  the  father  in  charge  and  riot  is  the 
order  of  the  day." 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  was  going  to 
say,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  Many  a  time  when 
Mrs.  Idiot  has  gone  out  shopping,  as  she 
did  on  the  day  in  question,  and  I  have  re 
mained  at  home  for  a  rest,  I  have  wished 
28 


'LET  THE  FATHERS  LOOK  AFTER  THE  CHILDREN 
A.T  NJGHT'" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

before  evening  came  that  I  had  gone  shop 
ping  and  let  my  wife  have  the  rest.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  bringing  up  of  chil 
dren  should  be  left  to  the  mother — : 

"  Oh,  but  the  father  should  have  some 
thing  to  do  with  it,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Idiot.  "  It  is  too  great  a  responsibility 
to  place  on  a  woman's  shoulders." 

"  You  didn't  let  me  finish,  my  dear," 
said  the  Idiot,  amiably.  "  I  was  going  to 
'say  that  the  mother  should  bring  the  chil 
dren  up,  and  the  father  should  take  'em 
down  when  they  get  up  too  high." 

"  My  views  to  a  dot,"  said  Mr.  Peda- 
gog,  with  more  enthusiasm  than  he  had 
ever  yet  shown  over  the  Idiot's  dicta. 
"  Just  as  in  ordinary  colonial  government, 
the  home  authorities  should  govern,  and 
when  necessary  a  stronger  power  should 
intervene." 

"Ideal — is  it  not?"  laughed  Mrs. 
Idiot,  addressing  Mrs.  Pedagog.  "  The 
mother,  Spain.  The  children,  Cuba. 
Papa,  the  great  and  glorious  United 
States!" 

"Ahem!  Well,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog, 
"I  didn't  mean  that  exactly,  you  know — 

"  But  it's  what  you  said,  John,"  said 
Mrs.  Pedagog,  somewhat  severely. 
31 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  why  there  can't  be  a 
division  of  responsibility/'  said  the  Poet, 
who  had  never  married,  and  who  knew 
children  only  as  a  theory.  "  Let  the 
mothers  look  after  them  in  the  daytime, 
and  the  fathers  at  night." 

This  sally  was  greeted  with  an  outburst 
of  applause,  it  was  so  practical. 

"Excuse  me!"  said  the  Idiot.  "I'm 
not  selfish,  but  I  don't  want  to  have 
charge  of  the  children  at  night.  Why, 
when  Tommy  was  cutting  his  teeth  I 
suffered  agonies  when  night  came  on.  I 
was  down-town  all  day,  and  so  wasn't  very 
much  bothered  then,  but  at  night  it  was 
something  awful.  Not  only  Tommy's 
tooth,  but  the  fear  that  his  mother  would 
tread  on  a  tack." 

"  That  was  unselfish,"  said  Mr.  Peda- 
gog,  dryly.  "  You  weren't  afraid  of  tread 
ing  on  one  yourself." 

"How  could  I?"  said  the  Idiot.  "I 
had  all  I  could  do  trying  to  keep  my  wife 
from  knowing  that  I  was  disturbed.  It 
is  bad  enough  to  be  worried  over  a  crying 
babe,  without  being  bothered  by  an  irri 
tated  husband,  so  I  simply  lay  there  pre 
tending  to  be  asleep  and  snoring  away  for 
dear  life." 

32 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  You  are  the  most  considerate  man  I 
ever  heard  of,"  said  Mrs.  Pedagog,  smil 
ing  broadly. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say/7  said  the 
Poet,  with  a  frown,  "  that  you  made  your 
wife  get  up  and  take  all  the  trouble  and 
bother—" 

"  I'd  only  have  been  in  the  way,"  said 
the  Idiot,  meekly. 

"  So  he  kept  quiet  and  pretended  to 
snore  like  the  good  old  Idiot  that  he  is," 
put  in  the  Doctor.  "  And  he  did  the  right 
thing,  too,"  he  added.  "  If  all  fathers 
would  obliterate  themselves  on  occasions 
of  that  sort,  and  let  the  mothers  rule,  the 
Tommys  and  Dickies  and  Harrys  would 
go  to  sleep  a  great  deal  more  quickly." 

"  We  are  rambling,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog. 
"  The  question  of  a  father's  duty  towards 
a  teething  son  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
question  of  a  child's  right  to  dine  with  his 
parents." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  If  we  are  to  consider  this  matter  scien 
tifically  we  must  start  right.  Teething 
is  a  natural  first  step,  for  if  a  child  hath 
no  teeth,  wherewithal  shall  he  eat  dinners 
with  his  parents  or  without  them?" 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  retorted  Mr. 
c  33 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

Pedagog,  "  but  to  discuss  fire-engines  in 
telligently  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  back 
to  the  times  of  Elisha  to  begin  it." 

Mr.  Whitechoker — now  the  Rev.  The- 
ophilus  Whitechoker,  D.D.,  for  he,  too, 
had  prospered  —  smiled  deprecatingly. 
There  is  no  man  in  the  world  who  more 
thoroughly  appreciates  a  biblical  joke 
than  the  prosperous  clergyman. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Idiot,  reflectively,  "  I 
quite  agree  Avith  your  proposition  that 
children  should  dine  in  the  dining-room 
with  their  parents  and  not  up-stairs  in  the 
nursery,  with  a  lot  of  tin  soldiers  and 
golliwogs.  The  manners  of  parents  are 
no  better  than  those  of  tin  soldiers  and 
golliwogs,  but  their  conversation  is  apt  to 
prove  more  instructive;  and  as  for  the 
stern  father  who  says  his  children  must 
dine  in  the  kitchen  until  they  learn  better 
manners,  I  never  had  much  confidence  in 
him  or  in  his  manners,  either." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  the  genial  old  gen 
tleman  who  occasionally  imbibed,  "  how 
you  can  discipline  children  in  the  nursery. 
If  they  misbehave  in  the  dining-room  you 
can  send  them  up-stairs  to  the  nursery,  but 
if  they  misbehave  in  the  nursery,  where  the 
deuce  can  you  send  them  ?" 
34 


"  A   LITTLE   FIGURE   CLAD   IN    WHITE  " 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  To  bed,"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"  Never !"  cried  the  Idiot.  "  Children, 
Mr.  Brief,  as  I  understand  them — and  I 
have  known  three  very  well ;  myself  as  a 
boy,  and  Tommy  and  Mollie — children, 
as  I  understand  them,  are  never  naughty 
for  the  mere  fun  of  being  so.  Their 
wickedness  grows  out  of  their  wonderful 
stores  of  unexpended  and  unexpendable 
energy.  Take  my  son  Thomas  on  last 
Saturday  afternoon,  for  instance.  It  was 
a  rainy  Saturday,  and  Tommy,  instead  of 
being  out-of-doors  all  morning  and  after 
noon  getting  rid  of  his  superfluous  vital 
ity,  had  been  cooped  up  in  the  house  all 
day  doing  nothing.  Shortly  before  din 
ner  we  had  a  difference  of  opinion  which 
lasted  for  more  time  than  I  like  to  think 
about.  I  was  tired  and  irritable.  Tom 
my  wasn't  tired,  but  he  was  irritable,  and, 
from  his  point  of  view,  was  as  right  as  I 
was.  He  had  the  best  of  me  to  the  extent 
that  I  was  tired  and  he  wasn't.  I  had  the 
best  of  him  to  the  extent  that  I  had  au 
thority  and  he  hadn't — 

"  And  who  came  out  ahead  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Pedagog. 

"I  did,"  said  the  Idiot,  "because  I 
was  bigger  than  he  was;  but  what  I  was 
37 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

going  to  say  was  this:  Mr.  Brief  would 
have  sent  him  to  bed,  thereby  adding  to 
the  boy's  stock  of  energy,  already  too 
great  for  his  little  mind  to  control." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Brief. 

"  Nothing"  said  a  small  but  unmistak 
ably  masculine  voice  from  behind  the  por 
tieres. 

"  Thomas !"  said  the  Idiot,  severely,  as 
all  turned  to  see  who  had  spoken. 

A  little  figure  clad  in  white,  ably  sup 
ported  by  a  still  smaller  figure,  also  clad 
in  white,  but  with  an  additional  ruffle 
about  the  neck,  both  of  them  barefooted, 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Why,  Mollie !"  said  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  We  corned  down  to  thee  how  you  wath 
gettin'  along,'7  said  the  little  girl. 

"  Yes,  we  did,"  said  the  boy.  "  But  he 
didn't  do  a  thing  to  me  that  day,"  he  add 
ed,  climbing  on  his  father's  knee  and 
snuggling  down  against  his  vest-pocket 
with  a  sweet  little  sigh  of  satisfaction. 
"Did  you,  pa?" 

"Yes,  Thomas,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Don't 
you  remember  that  I  ignored  you  utterly  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said 'Tommy.  "But  I'd 
rather  be  spanked  than  not  noticed  at  all." 
38 


I'D  RATHER  BE  SPANKED  THAN  NOT  NOTICED  AT  ALL'" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  I  am  afraid/'  said  Mr.  Pedagog  a 
few  hours  later,  as  he  and  Mrs.  Pedagog 
were  returning  home,  "  I  am  very  much 
afraid  that  the  Idiot's  children  are  being 
spoiled." 

"  I  hope  they  are !"  returned  the  good 
lady,  "  for  really,  John,  I  never  knew  a 
boy  or  a  girl  to  grow  into  man  or  woman 
hood  and  amount  to  anything  who  hadn't 
been  spoiled  in  childhood.  Spoiling  is 
another  name  for  the  attitude  of  parents 
who  make  comrades  of  their  children  and 
who  do  not  set  themselves  up  as  ty 
rants — 

"  But  the  veneration  of  a  child  for  his 
father  and  mother —  "  Mr.  Pedagog  began. 

"  Should  not  degenerate  into  the  awe 
which  one  feels  for  an  unrelenting  des 
pot!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Pedagog. 

The  old  gentleman  discreetly  retired 
from  the  field. 

As  for  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Idiot,  they  retired 
that  night  satisfied  with  the  evening's  di 
version,  and  just  before  he  turned  out  the 
light  the  Idiot  walked  into  the  nursery  to 
say  good-night  to  the  children. 

"  You're  a  good  old  pop !"  said  Tommy, 
with  an  affectionate  hug.  "  The  best  I 
ever  had!" 

41 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

As  for  Mollie,  she  was  sleeping  sound 
ly,  with  a  smile  on  her  placid  little  face 
which  showed  that,  "  spoiled  "  as  she  was, 
she  was  happy ;  and  what  should  the  Idiot 
or  any  one  else  seek  to  bring  into  a  child's 
life  but  happiness  ? 


m 

IN  THE  LIBRARY 

THE  Bibliomaniac  had  come  off  into 
the  country  to  spend  Sunday  with  the 
Idiot,  and,  as  fortune  would  have  it,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Pedagog  also  appeared  on  the 
scene.  After  the  mid-day  dinner  the  little 
party  withdrew  to  the  library,  where  the 
Bibliomaniac  began  to  discourse  some 
what  learnedly  upon  his  hobby. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see,  my  dear  Idiot,"  he 
observed,  as  he  glanced  about  the  room  at 
the  well-filled  shelves,  "  that  as  you  grow 
older  you  are  cultivating  a  love  of  good 
literature." 

"  I  heartily  echo  the  sentiment,"  said 
Mr.  Pedagog,  as  he  noted  the  titles  of 
some  of  the  volumes.  "  I  may  add  that  I 
am  pleasurably  surprised  at  some  of  your 
selections.  I  never  knew,  for  instance, 
that  you  cared  for  Dryden,  and  yet  I  see 
43" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

here  on  the  top  shelf  a  voluminous  edi 
tion  of  that  poet." 

"  Yes/'  said  the  Idiot.  "  I  have  found 
Dryden  very  useful  indeed.  Particular 
ly  in  that  binding  and  in  so  many  vol 
umes.  The  color  goes  very  well  with  the 
hangings,  and  the  space  the  books  occupy, 
eked  out  by  a  dozen  others  of  the  same 
color,  gives  to  that  top  shelf  all  the  es 
thetic  effect  of  an  attractive  and  tasteful 
frieze.  Then,  too,  it  is  always  well/7  he 
added,  with  a  sly  wink  at  Mrs.  Idiot,  "  to 
have  a  lot  of  books  for  a  top  shelf  that 
is  difficult  to  reach  that  nothing  under 
the  canopy  could  induce  you  to  read.  It 
is  not  healthful  to  be  stretching  upward, 
and  with  Dryden  upon  the  top  shelf 
my  wife  and  I  are  never  tempted  to  un 
dermine  our  constitutions  by  taking  him 
down." 

The  Bibliomaniac  laughed. 

"  Your  view  is  at  least  characteristic," 
said  he,  "  and  to  tell  you  the  absolute 
truth,  I  do  not  know  that  your  judgment 
of  the  literary  value  of  Dryden  is  at  vari 
ance  with  my  own.  Somebody  called  him 
the  Greatest  Poet  of  a  Little  Age.  Per 
haps  if  the  age  had  been  bigger  he'd  not 
have  shone  so  brilliantly." 
44 


"  '  I   DID   NOT    SMOKE    UNTIL    I    WAS    FIFTY 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  Lowell/'  observed  Mr.  Pedagog,  "  was 
responsible  for  that  remark,  if  I  remem 
ber  rightly,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  a 
just  one,  and  yet  I  do  not  hold  it  up 
against  Dryden.  Man  does  not  make  the 
age.  The  age  makes  the  man.  Had  there 
been  any  inspiring  influences  at  work  to 
give  him  a  motive,  an  incentive,  Dryden 
might  have  been  a  greater  poet.  To  excel 
his  fellows  was  all  that  could  rightly  be 
expected  of  him,  and  that  he  did." 

"Assuredly,"  said  the  Idiot.  "That 
has  always  been  my  view,  and  to-day  we 
benefit  by  it.  If  he  had  gone  directly  to 
oblivion,  Mrs.  Idiot  and  I  -should  have 
been  utterly  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  put 
on  that  top  shelf." 

The  Idiot  offered  his  visitors  a  cigar. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac, 
taking  his  and  sniffing  at  it  with  all  the 
airs  and  graces  of  a  connoisseur. 

"  I  don't  know  but  that  I  will  join 
you,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog.  "  I  did  not 
smoke  until  I  was  fifty,  and  I  suppose  I 
ought  not  to  have  taken  it  up  then,  but  I 
did,  and  I  have  taken  a  great  deal  of  com 
fort  out  of  it.  My  allowance  is  fifty-two 
cigars  a  year,  one  for  each  Sunday  after 
noon,"  he  added,  with  a  kindly  smile. 
47 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  Well,  you  want  to  look  out  you  don't 
get  smoker's  heart/'  said  the  Idiot. 
"  When  a  man  plunges  into  a  bad  habit  as 
rashly  as  that,  he  wants  to  pull  up  before 
it  is  too  late." 

"  I  have  felt  no  ill  effects  since  the  first 
one,"  rejoined  Mr,  Pedagog.  "  But  you, 
my  dear  Idiot,  how  about  your  allowance  ? 
Is  it  still  as  great  as  ever  ?  As  I  remem 
ber  you  in  the  old  days  you  were  some 
thing  of  a  cigarette  fiend." 

"  I  smoke  just  as  much,  but  with  this 
difference:  I  do  not  smoke  for  pleasure 
any  more,  Mr.  Pedagog,"  the  Idiot  re 
plied.  "  As  a  householder  I  smoke  from 
a  sense  of  duty.  It  keeps  moths  out  of  the 
house,  and  insects  from  the  plants." 

The  Bibliomaniac  meanwhile  had  been 
investigating  the  contents  of  the  lower 
shelves. 

"  You've  got  a  few  rare  things  here,  I 
see,"  he  observed,  taking  up  a  volume  of 
short  sketches  illustrated  by  Leech,  in 
color.  "  This  small  tome  is  worth  its 
weight  in  gold.  Where  did  you  pick  it 
up?" 

"  Auction,"  said  the  Idiot.     "  I  didn't 
buy  it  by  weight,  either.     I  bought  it  by 
mistake.     The  colored  pictures  fascinated 
48 


"'SMOKING  KEEPS  INSECTS  FROM  THE  PLANTS' 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

me,  and  when  it  was  put  up  I  bawled  out 
'  fifteen.'  Another  fellow  said  (  sixteen.' 
I  wasn't  going  to  split  nickels  so  I  bid 
'  twenty.'  So  we  kept  at  it  until  it  was 
run  up  to  '  thirty-six.'  Then  I  thought 
I'd  break  the  other  fellow's  heart  by  bid 
ding  fifty,  and  it  was  knocked  down  to 
me." 

"  That's  a  stiff  price,  but  on  the  whole 
it's  worth  it,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac, 
stroking  the  back  of  the  book  caressingly. 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog,  "  if  you  bid 
on  it  consciously  where  did  the  mistake 
come  in  ?" 

The  Idiot  sighed.  "  I  meant  cents," 
he  said,  "  but  the  other  chap  and  the  auc 
tioneer  meant  dollars.  I  went  up  and 
planked  down  a  half-dollar  and  was  im 
mediately  made  aware  of  my  error." 

"  But  you  could  have  explained,"  said 
Mr.  Pedagog. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Idiot,  "I  could, 
but  after  all  I  preferred  to  pay  the  extra 
$49.50  rather  than  make  a  public  confes 
sion  of  such  infernal  innocence  before 
some  sixty  or  seventy  habitues  of  a  book- 
auction  room." 

"  And  you  were  perfectly  right !"  said 
the  Bibliomaniac.  "  You  never  would 
51 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

have  dared  set  your  foot  in  that  place 
again  if  you  had  explained.  They  would 
have  made  life  a  burden  to  you.  Further 
more,  you  have  not  paid  too  dearly  for  the 
experience.  The  book  is  worth  forty  dol 
lars;  and  to  learn  better  than  to  despise 
the  man  who  makes  his  bid  cautiously, 
and  who  advances  by  small  bids  rather 
than  by  antelopian  jumps,  is  worth  many 
times  ten  dollars  to  the  man  who  collects 
rare  books  seriously.  In  the  early  days  I 
scorned  to  break  a  five-dollar  bill  when  I 
was  bidding,  just  as  you  refused,  as  you 
put  it,  to  split  nickels,  and  many  a  time  I 
have  paid  as  high  as  twenty-five  dollars 
for  books  that  could  have  been  had  for 
twenty-one,  because  of  that  foolish  senti 
ment." 

"  I  have  often  wondered,"  Mr.  Pedagog 
put  in  at  this  point,  holding  his  cigar  in  a 
gingerly  and  awed  fashion,  taking  a  puff 
at  it  between  words,  by  which  symptoms 
the  man  who  seldom  smokes  may  always 
be  identified,  "  I  have  often  wondered 
what  was  the  mission  of  a  private  library, 
anyhow.  And  now  that  I  find  you  two 
gentlemen  interested  in  a  phase  of  book- 
collecting  with  which  I  have  had  little 
sympathy  myself,  possibly  I  may,  without 
52 


tit* 


THE    BIBLIOMANIAC    WAS    INVESTIGATING    THE    CONTENTS 
OF   THE    LOWEK   SHELVES" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

being  offensive,  ask  a  question.  Do  you, 
for  instance,  Mr.  Idiot,  collect  books  be 
cause  you  wish  to  have  something  nobody 
else  has  got,  or  do  you  buy  your  books  to 
read?" 

"  That  is  a  deep  question,"  said  the 
Idiot,  "  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  an 
swer  it  off-hand.  I  have  already  confess 
ed  that  I  bought  Dryden  for  his  decora 
tive  quality.  I  purchased  my  Thackeray 
to  read.  I  bought  my  Pepys  Diary  be 
cause  I  find  it  better  reading  than  a  Sun 
day  newspaper,  quite  as  gossipy,  and  with 
weather  reports  that  are  fully  as  reliable. 
But  that  particular  Leech  I  bought  be 
cause  of  my  youthful  love  for  colored  pict 


ures." 


"  But  you  admit  that  it  is  valuable  be 
cause  of  its  rarity,  and  that  compared  to 
fifty  dollars'  worth  of  books  that  are  not 
rare  it  is  not  to  be  compared  with  them 
from  a  literary  point  of  view?"  said  Mr. 
Pedagog. 

"  I  presume,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  that  the 
fifty  dollars  I  expended  on  that  book 
would  have  provided  me  with  a  complete 
Shakespeare  in  one  volume;  all  of  Byron 
in  green  cloth  and  gold  top;  all  of  Dick 
ens,  Thackeray,  Bulwer,  and  Austen  in  six 
55 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

volumes,  with  a  margin  of  forty-five  dol 
lars  left  with  which  for  nine  years  I  could 
have  paid  for  a  subscription  to  the  Mer 
cantile  Library,  containing  all  the  good 
reading  of  the  present  day  and  all  the 
standard  works  of  the  past.  But  I  rather 
like  to  have  the  books,  and  to  feel  that 
they  are  my  own,  even  if  it  is  only  for  the 
pleasure  of  lending  them." 

"  Still,  if  a  man  collects  books  merely 
for  their  contents —  ''  persisted  Mr.  Peda- 

g°g- 

"  He   is   a  wild,   extravagant  person, 

said  the  Idiot.  "  He  might  save  himself 
hundreds  of  dollars,  not  to  say  thousands. 
The  library  on  that  plan  need  not  occupy 
an  honored  place  among  the  rooms  of  the 
house.  A  mere  pigeon-hole  with  a  sub 
scriber's  card  to  a  circulating  library  filed 
away  in  it  will  do  as  well,  or  if  the  city 
or  town  in  which  he  lives  maintains  a  pub 
lic  library  he  may  spare  himself  even  that 
expense." 

"  Good  for  you !"  exclaimed  the  Biblio 
maniac.  "  That's  the  best  answer  to  the 
critics  of  book  -  collectors  I  have  heard 
yet." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog. 
"  It  is  a  very  comprehensive  reply.  As 
56 


PREFERRED   TO   PAY    THE    $49.50 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

for  you,  my  dear  Bibliomaniac,  why  do 
you  collect  books  ?" 

"  Becausa  I  love  'em  as  books,"  replied 
the  Bibliomaniac.  "  Because  of  their  as 
sociations,  and  because  when  I  get  a  treas 
ure  I  have  the  bliss  of  knowing  I  have 
something  that  others  haven't." 

"  Then  it  is  selfishness  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Pedagog. 

"  Just  as  everything  else  is,"  returned 
the  Bibliomaniac.  "  You,  sir,  if  I  may 
be  personal  without  wishing  to  be  offen 
sive,  are  wedded  to  Mrs.  Pedagog.  You 
take  pleasure  in  knowing  that  she  belongs 
to  you  and  not  to  any  one  else.  The  Idiot 
here  is  proud  of  his  children,  and  is  glad 
they  are  his  children  and  nobody  else's. 
7  am  wedded  to  my  rare  books,  and  it  re 
joices  my  soul  to  pick  up  a  volume  that  is 
unique,  and  to  know  that  it  belongs  to  me 
and  to  no  one  else.  If  that  is  selfishness, 
then  all  possession  is  selfish." 

"  That's  about  it,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  You  collect  books  just  as  Mormons  and 
Solomon  used  to  collect  wives.  You  are 
called  a  Bibliomaniac.  I  suppose  Brig- 
ham  Young  and  Solomon  would  have  been 
known  as  Gamyomaniacs — though  I  don't 
suppose  that  age  in  women  as  in  books  is  a 
59 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

requisite  of  value  to  marrying  men — and 
they  are  both  of  them  supposed  to  be 
rather  canny  persons." 

Mr.  Pedagog  puffed  away  in  silence. 
It  was  evident  that  the  argumentum  ad 
liominem  did  not  please  him. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  awhile,  "  pos 
sibly  you  are  right.  If  a  man  wants  a  li 
brary  to  be  a  small  British  Museum — 

"  He  will  take  better  care  of  his  rari 
ties  than  the  Idiot  does,"  said  the  Biblio 
maniac,  putting  the  rare  Leech  back  into 
its  place.  "  If  that  were  mine  I'd  put  it 
out  of  the  reach  of  my  children." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  had  any,"  said  the 
Idiot,  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  retorted 
the  Bibliomaniac.  "  You  place  Dryden 
on  the  top  shelf  where  Tommy  and  Mollie 
cannot  get  at  him.  But  this  book,  which 
is  worth  ten  larger  paper  editions  of  Dry- 
den,  you  keep  below,  where  the  children 
can  easily  reach  it.  It's  a  wonder  to  me 
you've  been  able  to  keep  it  in  its  present 
superb  condition." 

"  The  mind  of  a  child,"  said  Mr.  Ped 
agog,  sententiously,  "  is  above  values, 
above  all  conceits.  It  is  the  mind  of  sin 
cerity,  and  a  rare  book  has  no  greater  at- 
60 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

traction  to  the  boy  or  girl  than  one  not  so 
favored." 

"  That  is  not  my  reason/7  said  the  Idiot. 
"  I  know  children  pretty  well,  and  I  have 
observed  that  they  are  ambitious,  and  in 
a  sense  rebellious.  They  want  to  do  what 
they  cannot  do.  That  is  why,  when  moth 
ers  place  jam  on  the  top  shelf  of  the  pan 
try,  the  children  always  climb  up  to  get  it. 
If  they  would  leave  it  on  the  dining-room 
table,  within  easy  reach,  the  children 
would  soon  cease  to  regard  it  as  a  thing  to 
be  sought  for.  Make  jam  a  required 
article  of  diet  and  the  little  ones  will  soon 
cease  to  want  it.  So  with  that  book.  If  I 
should  put  that  out  of  Tommy's  reach, 
Tommy  would  lie  awake  nights  to  plan  his 
campaign  to  get  it.  Leaving  it  where  it 
is  he  doesn't  think  about  it,  doesn't  want 
it,  is  not  forbidden  to  have  it,  and  so  it 
escapes  his  notice." 

"  You  have  the  right  idea,  the  human 
idea,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog,  and  even  the 
Bibliomaniac  was  inclined  to  agree.  But 
just  then  Tommy  happened  in,  with  Mol- 
lie  close  after.  The  boy  walked  straight 
to  the  bookcase,  and  Mollie  gathered  up 
the  large  shears  from  the  Idiot's  table, 
and  together  they  approached  their  father. 
61 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  Pa,"  said  Mollie,  holding  up  the  scis 
sors,  "  can  I  borrow  these  ?" 

"  What  for  ?"  asked  the  Idiot. 

"  We  want  to  cut  the  pictures  out  o' 
this/'  said  Tommy,  holding  up  the  fifty- 
dollar  Leech. 

After  all,  it  is  difficult  to  lay  down  a 
cast-iron  rule  as  to  how  a  private  library 
should  be  constructed  or  arranged,  par 
ticularly  when  one's  loyalty  is  divided  be 
tween  one's  children  and  one's  merely 
bookish  treasures. 


IV 


AS    TO    A    SMALL    DINNER 

IT  was  sad  but  true.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Idiot  had  invited  Mr.  Whitechoker  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pedagog  and  the  Poet  to 
dinner,  and  for  some  reason  or  another  the 
cook  had  taken  wings  unto  herself  and 
flown,  and  the  guests  were  expected  with 
in  two  hours. 

"  I  see  now/'  said  the  Idiot,  "  why  they 
call  it  taking  French  leave.  Nobody  who 
doesn't  understand  French  understands 
it.  If  it  wasn't  French,  or  if  somebody 
would  translate  it  for  us,  we  might  be 
able  to  comprehend  it ;  as  it  is,  it  is  one  of 
the  mysteries,  and,  as  usual,  we  must 
make  the  best  of  it.  Life,  after  all,  my 
dear,  consists  largely  of  making  the  best 
of  things." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to 
do,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  despairfullv,  "  un- 
G3 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

less  you  telegraph  them  all  not  to  come, 
and  tell  them  why." 

"  It  is  too  late  to  do  that/7  said  the 
Idiot,  looking  at  his  watch.  "  They've 
probably  all  left  home  by  this  time. 
Poets  and  clergymen  and  old  people  like 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pedagog  always  do  start  an 
hour  too  early,  for  fear  of  missing  their 
train." 

"  I  wouldn't  care  so  much  about  the 
Poet/'  said  Mrs.  Idiot ;  "  he  doesn't  know 
enough  about  housekeeping,  anyhow,  to 
make  it  matter.  But  Mr.  Whitechoker 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pedagog — I  simply 
can't  ask  them  to  camp  out,  as  it  were. 
The  very  fact  that  Mrs.  Pedagog  would 
become  sympathetic  immediately  she 
learned  what  had  happened  would  in  it 
self  be  unbearable." 

"  I  thought  women  liked  sympathy  ?" 
said  the  Idiot,  with  a  proper  manifesta 
tion  of  surprise. 

"  So  they  do ;  but  you  might  just  as 
well  talk  about  claret  as  meaning  one 
thing  as  of  sympathy  being  all  of  the  same 
brand,"  Mrs.  Idiot  answered.  "  Certain 
kinds  of  claret  are  insufferable — sour  and 
heady.  I  suppose  there  are  sixty  different 
kinds." 

64 


THE    COOK   HAD   TAKEN    WINGS    UNTO   HERSELF' 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  Sixty-two/'  said  the  Idiot,  blandly. 
"  The  sixty  you  mean  and  two  more  whose 
names  I  have  forgotten." 

"I  wish  you  would  be  serious  for  a 
moment,"  Mrs.  Idiot  retorted,  with  as  near 
an  approach  to  irritation  as  was  possible 
to  one  of  her  amiable  disposition.  "  And 
it's  just  the  same  way  with  sympathy," 
she  continued ;  "  Mrs.  Pedagog  will  lay 
this  whole  trouble  to  my  inexperience. 
Probably  she  never  had  a  servant  take 
French  leave  in  her  life  on  the  eve  of  a 
dinner-party." 

"  I'll  bet  she  didn't,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  And  for  why  ?  Because  she  never  gave 
a  dinner-party  in  all  her  life.  The  habits 
of  early  life  cling  unto  old  age,  and  even 
as  in  her  early  days  as  a  boarding-house 
keeper  she  never  gave  anything,  so  now 
she  doubtless  considers  giving  a  din 
ner  as  a  reckless  waste  of  opportunity. 
And  she  is  quite  right.  Does  a  lawyer  in 
vite  his  friends  to  join  him  in  an  opinion  ? 
Never.  Does  Mr.  Tiffany  request  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Idiot  to  accept  a  diamond  tiara 
given  in  their  honor  ?  "Not.  Does  a  true 
poet,  wth  three  names  on  his  autograph, 
give  a  poem  to  anybody  when  he  can  sell 
it?  Not  if  he  knows  it.  Why,  then,  ex- 
67 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

pect   a  landlady,  by  birth  and  previous 
training,  to  give  a  dinner?" 

"  I  notice,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  severely, 
"  that  you  are  always  willing  to  give  your 
views !" 

"  Precisely,  my  dear,  and  that  proves 
my  point,"  replied  the  Idiot,  amiably. 
"  I  am  not  a  professional  viewer,  and  I 
am  not  a  photographer  by  trade.  There 
fore,  why  should  I  not  give  my  views  ? 
But  really,"  he  added,  "I  wouldn't 
bother;  it'll  all  come  out  right.  I  don't 
know  just  how,  but  I  am  confident  we 
shall  have  the  most  glorious  dinner  of 
our  lives.  When  I  was  down  cellar  this 
morning  looking  at  the  gas-meter  I  saw 
two  big  boxes  full  of  potatoes,  a  can  of 
French  pease,  and  a  bottle  of  sarsaparilla, 
and  if  they  don't  like  what  they  get  it 
will  be  because  they  are  exacting.  And 
I'll  wager  you  from  what  I  know  of  their 
manners  that  if  you  gave  them  dried  ap 
ples,  cold  tongue,  and  milk  they'd  say  it 
was  the  most  delightful  repast  they  ever 
sat  down  to." 

"  But  I'd  know  they  didn't  mean  it," 
said  Mrs.  Idiot,  smiling  in  spite  of  her 
woe. 

"  And  that  brings  up  the  question,  why 
68 


'"TWO   BIG    BOXES    OP   POTATOES,   A    CAN    OP    FRENCH    PEASE,  AND 
A    BOTTLK    OF    SARSAPARILLA '  " 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

should  your  conscience  be  troubled  by  the 
insincerity  of  others  ?"  said  he.  "  Now, 
I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  You  fry  the 
potatoes  and  I'll  boil  the  can  of  pease; 
I  think  four  minutes  will  boil  them  hard, 
like  an  egg,  and  together  we'll  put  the 
sarsaparilla  on  ice,  and  bluff  the  whole 
thing  through.  Bluffing  was  always  my 
strong  point,  and  I  have  noticed,  my  dear, 
that  in  whatever  I  have  tried  to  do  since 
we  were  married  you  have  contributed 
at  least  ninety  per  cent,  to  success.  My 
bluff  plus  your  efforts  to  make  the  thing 
a  go  will  send  our  dinner  to  a  premium.'' 

Mrs.  Idiot  remained  properly  silent. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  not  even 
listening.  She  was  considering.  What 
on  earth  to  do  was  the  question  in  her 
mind,  and  it  so  entirely  absorbed  it  that 
she  fortunately  had  little  left  for  the 
rather  easy  views  of  the  Idiot  himself. 

"  What  is  a  dinner,  anyhow  f '  the  Idiot 
added,  after  the  silence  had  to  his  mind 
become  oppressive.  "  Is  it  a  mere  meal  ? 
Do  the  Poet  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pedagog 
and  Mr.  Whitechoker  come  here  merely 
to  get  something  to  eat  ?  Or  do  they  come 
for  the  pleasure  of  our  society,  or  for  the 
pleasure  of  leaving  home,  or  what  ?  As  I 
71 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

understand  it,  people  go  out  to  dine  not 
because  they  have  not  a  sufficiency  of  food 
at  home,  but  because  they  wish  to  meet 
other  people.  That's  what  I  do.  I  can 
always  have  something  better  to  eat  at 
home  than  I  can  get  at  somebody  else's 
house;  and  furthermore,  it  is  a  more  nat 
ural  meal.  Dinners  generally  are  made 
up  of  pretty  little  things  that  nobody 
likes,  and  have  no  sustenance  in  them. 
A  successful  dinner  lies  not  in  successful 
cooking,  but  in  pleasing  conversation. 
Wherefore,  it  is  not  the  cook,  but  the 
host  and  hostess  who  make  a  failure  or  a 
success  of  a  dinner." 

"  Then  I  presume  if  we  simply  spread 
the  table  and  let  you  talk  our  guests  will 
be  satisfied?"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  blandly. 

"  Precisely,"  the  Idiot  replied.  "  It- 
will  be  delightful.  Just  think  of  the 
menu!  Instead  of  oysters  I  will  indulge 
in  a  few  opinions  as  to  the  intellectual 
qualities  of  bivalves  generally,  finishing 
up  with  a  glowing  tribute  to  the  man  who 
is  content  to  be  a  clam  and  not  talk  too 
much.  In  the  place  of  puree  we  will 
tackle  some  such  subject  as  the  future  of 
Spain.  I  think  I  could  ladle  out  a  few 
sound  ideas  on  that  subject  that  would 
72 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

be  as  clear  as  the  purest  consomme.  Then 
for  fish,  that  would  be  easy.  A  good 
trout  story,  with  imagination  sauce, 
would  do  very  well.  For  the  entree  I 
will  give  you  one  of  my  most  recent 
poems,  and  the  roast  will  be — 

"  And  the  rest  of  us  are  to  sit  and 
twiddle  our  thumbs  while  you  solilo 
quize  ?"  demanded  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  I  ra 
ther  think  not.  I  will  provide  the  roast, 
my  dear  John,  and  it  will  consist  largely 
of  remarks  upon  the  ways  of  cooks." 

"  A  very  proper  subject  for  a  roast," 
observed  the  Idiot,  complacently,  "  and 
in  your  present  frame  of  mind  I  think 
it  will  be  not  only  well  done,  but  rare  as 
well,  with  plenty  of  crisp.  And  so  we 
can  simply  talk  this  dinner  through.  It 
will  be  novel,  certainly,  and  if  you  pro 
vide  plenty  of  bread  and  butter  no  one 
need  go  away  hungry." 

"Very  true,"  Mrs.  Idiot  answered. 
"  And  now  that  you  have  had  your  fun, 
suppose  we  put  our  minds  on  the  serious 
aspect  of  the  case.  Two  hours  from  now 
four  people  are  coming  here  hungry — 

"I  have  it!"  cried  the  Idiot,  delight- 
edly.  "  Let's  borroiv  a  cook !  I  don't 
believe  it's  ever  been  done  before.  It 
73 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

would  be  splendid,  not  only  in  getting  us 
out  of  our  troubles,  but  in  establishing  an 
entirely  new  principle  in  domestic  sci 
ence.  What  is  the  use  of  neighbors  who 
will  not  be  neighborly  and  lend  you  their 
most  cherished  possession  ?" 

"  None  at  all/7  sighed  Mrs.  Idiot,  de 
spairingly. 

"  Now,  when  we  lived  in  our  flat  in 
New  York  the  people  up-stairs  borrowed 
our  ice,"  said  the  Idiot ;  "  the  people  dow?i- 
stairs  borrowed  our  dining-room  chairs; 
the  people  across  the  hall  borrowed  but 
ter  and  milk  and  eggs,  and  I  think  we 
once  borrowed  a  lemon  from  the  people 
on  the  top  floor." 

"  Never  !"  cried  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  Yes,  we  did,  my  dear,"  insisted  the 
Idiot.  "At  least  I  did.  You  and  the 
children  were  off  in  the  country,  and  one 
hot  summer's  night,  two  years  ago,  I 
was  consumed  with  a  desire  for  a  glass 
of  lemonade,  and  as  there  were  no  lemons 
in  the  house,  or  the  flat,  I  sent  out  to  bor 
row.  I  began  at  the  basement  and  work 
ed  up  towards  the  roof,  and  ultimately 
got  what  I  wanted,  although,  as  I  have 
said,  it  was  the  top-flat  people  I  got  it 
from." 


THE  PEOPLE  DOWN-STAIRS  BORROWED  OUR  DINING-ROOM 
CHAIRS'" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  And  did  you  ever  return  it  ?"  de 
manded  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  I  regret  to  say  that  I  didn't,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "  But  I  will,  and  with  interest. 
I  wonder  what  two  years'  interest  on  a 
lemon  is !"  he  added.  "  I  suppose  that  a 
borrowed  lemon  compounded  at  the  rate 
of  six  per  cent,  could  be  paid  off  by  a 
lemon  and  one  small  Bermuda  potato. 
I  will  send  my  check  for  both  to  those 
people  to-morrow.  What  was  their 
name  ?" 

"  I  never  knew/7  said  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  I 
never  liked  them,  and  I  never  called.  I 
am  sorry  you  are  under  obligations  to 
them." 

"  Only  for  a  lemon,  though,  dear," 
said  the  Idiot,  "  at  six  per  cent." 

"  But  what  does  all  this  prove  ?"  de 
manded  the  poor  little  housekeeper. 

"  That  the  principle  of  lending  is 
recognized  among  neighbors,"  the  Idiot 
explained.  "  If  a  neighbor  will  lend  a 
lemon,  surely  a  neighbor  will  lend  a 
cook.  The  principle  involved  is  the 
same  in  both  cases.  Particularly  so  in 
this  case,  for  my  experience  with  cooks 
has  been  that  they  are,  after  all,  for  the 
most  part  nothing  but  human  lemons. 
77 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

If  the  departed  Bridget  had  been  any 
thing  but  full  of  sourness  she  would  not 
have  left  us  so  unexpectedly." 

"  You  don't  really  think  for  a  moment, 
do  you,  that  the  Jimpsonberrys  would 
lend  us  their  cook,  or  that  she  would  come, 
or  that  I  would  ask  them  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Idiot. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  not,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"I  suppose  not.  But  I  don't  see  why! 
First,  the  Jimpsonberrys,  as  our  neigh 
bors,  ought  to  be  willing  to  get  us  out  of 
our  trouble.  Second,  we  don't  ask  their 
cook  to  come  for  nothing.  By  coming  she 
will  receive  an  addition  to  her  wages 
which  will  help  her  to  endow  a  policeman 
with  a  moderate  fortune  some  day  when 
she  marries  him.  As  for  your  asking 
Mrs.  Jimpsonberry  to  lend  us  her  cook 
for  a  few  hours,  that  is  the  main  objec 
tion.  When  one  borrows  one  must  give 
collateral,  and  it  may  be  that  it  would 
embarrass  you  to  offer  Mike  as  security 
for  the  safe  return  of  the  Jimpsonberrys' 
cook.  Anyhow,  I  see  weak  points  in  my 
plan,  and  we'd  better  abandon  it.  If  the 
Jimpsonberrys'  cook  is  the  only  available 
incendiary  in  the  neighborhood,  we'd  bet 
ter  stop  where  we  are.  When  we  dined  at 
Y8 


u  '  WHO   WAS   IT  ?'    ASKED    MRS.    IDIOT  ' 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

Jimpsonberrys'  last  week  I  went  away 
feeling  that  Jimpsonberry  ought  to  col 
lect  fire  insurance  on  that  dinner.  It 
wasn't  cooked;  it  was  a  plain  case  of  ar 
son." 

It  was  at  this  precise  moment,  when 
poor  Mrs.  -Idiot  was  beginning  to  despair 
of  getting  any  advice  of  value  from  her 
husband,  that  the  telephone-bell  rang,  and 
the  Idiot  rose  up  to  answer  the  call. 

"  Hello !"  he  said. 

aOh!  Hello,  old  man!"  he  added. 
"  That  you  ?  Glad  to  see  you." 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause. 
"  Of  course  we  expect  you." 

"  Seven  o'clock  sharp,"  he  remarked, 
a  moment  later.  "  You'll  surely  be 
here?"  Then  after  a  second  pause,  he 
added : 

"  Good !  You  can  stay  all  night  if 
vou  wish;  we've  plenty  of  room.  Good- 
bye."  . 

"  Who  was  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Idiot,  as 
the  Idiot  hung  up  the  receiver  of  the 
telephone. 

"  The  Poet,"  replied  the  Idiot.  "  He 
wanted  to  know  at  what  hour  dinner 
was." 

"  Oh,  dear !"  cried  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  Why 
F  81 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

didn't  you  tell  him  the  dinner  isn't  for 
to-night,  but  to-morrow  night?" 

"  Didn't  need  to,  my  dear,"  said  the 
Idiot,  lighting  a  cigarette.  "  We've  made 
a  slight  mistake.  You  invited  these  peo 
ple,  it  now  appears,  for  the  twenty- 
ninth." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  Well,  my  love,"  said  the  Idiot,  with 
an  affectionate  glance,  "  to-day  is  the — 
ah — the  twenty-eighth." 

Mrs.  Idiot  drew  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"My!  she  cried,  "what  a  blessing! 
I  wonder  how  I  got  so  mixed !" 

"  It's  economy,  perhaps,"  suggested  the 
Idiot.  "  If  you  will  insist  on  buying 
out-of-date  diaries  and  last  year's  calen 
dars  at  bargain-counters  because  they  are 
cheap,  I  don't  really  see  how  you  can  ex 
pect  to  keep  up  with  the  times." 

Mrs.  Idiot  laughed  heartily.  Her  re 
lief  of  mind  was  unmistakable. 

"  What  would  you  have  done,  John,  if 
this  had  really  been  the  night?"  she  ask 
ed  later. 

"Oh,   I   don't  know,"   said   the   Idiot. 

"  I  think  I  should  have  taken  you  to  New 

York  to   dinner,   and  bluffed   our  guests 

into  believing  they  had  come  up  on  the 

82 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

wrong  night.  It  is  very  easy  for  a  host 
to  put  his  guests  in  the  wrong  if  he  wants 
to.  I  don't,  but  if  I  must,  I  must." 

As  it  was,  the  family  dinner  that  night 
was  a  great  success  in  spite  of  the  absence 
of  the  cook,  because  Mrs.  Idiot,  who  is  an 
expert  with  the  chafing-dish,  found  sev 
eral  odds  and  ends  in  the  late  cook's  do 
mains,  which,  under  her  expert  manipu 
lation,  became  dishes  which  the  Idiot  said 
afterwards  "  remained  long  in  the  mem 
ory  without  proving  too  permanent  a  tax 
upon  the  digestion." 


ON  THE  MAINTENANCE  OF  AN  ATTIC 

THE  Idiot  had  been  laid  up  for  a  week. 
That  is  to  say,  he  was  too  indisposed  to 
attend  to  business  at  his  office,  and  the 
family  physician  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  idea  if  his  patient  would  be  content 
to  remain  quietly  indoors  for  a  little 
while.  To  this  the  Idiot  cheerfully  con 
sented. 

"  If  there  is  one  thing  that  I  can  do  to 
perfection/7  he  said,  "  it  is  resting.  Some 
men  are  born  leisurely,  some  achieve  lei 
sure,  and  some  are  discharged  by  their  em 
ployers.  I  belong  to  the  first  two  classes. 
I  can  never  become  one  of  the  third  class, 
because,  being  my  own  employer,  I  am 
naturally  pleased  with  myself,  and  am  not 
likely  to  dispense  with  my  own  services." 

And  so  he  stayed  at  home,  and  for  a 
week  pottered  about  the  house,  as  he  put 
it,  and  he  had  a  glorious  time. 
84 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your 
self  this  morning,  dear  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Idiot 
on  the  morning  of  the  first  day.  "  I've 
got  to  go  to  market,  and  there  are  one  or 
two  other  little  things  to  be  attended  to 
which  will  keep  me  out  for  some  hours. 
Do  you  think  you  can  amuse  yourself  while 
I  am  out  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know/'  said  the  Idiot. 
"  I  can  try.  Of  course,  you  know,  my 
dear,  that  I  am  a  good  deal  of  a  baby  yet. 
However,  if  you  can  trust  me  to  stay  all 
by  my  lonesome  for  two  or  three  hours  I'll 
try  to  behave.  I  promise  not  to  take  the 
piano  apart,  and  I  vow  I  won't  steal  any 
jam,  and  I  sha'n't  float  hair-brushes  in  the 
bath-tub  pretending  that  they  are  armored 
cruisers  looking  for  Spaniards,  and  I'll 
try  to  be  good,  but  I  can't  make  any  prom 
ises." 

Mrs.  Idiot  smiled,  as  an  indulgent 
guardian  should,  and  went  forth.  The 
Idiot  stayed  at  home  and  enjoyed  himself. 
What  he  did  is  perhaps  best  indicated  by 
his  remarks  some  time  later  at  a  Sunday- 
night  tea  at  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pedagog, 
and  Mr.  Brief,  the  lawyer,  were  present. 

"  Mrs.  Pedagog,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  did 
you  ever  have  an  attic?" 
85 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  A  what  ?"  demanded  the  Schoolmas 
ter,  naturally  somewhat  nonplussed. 

"  An  attic,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  A  favor 
ed  spot  wherein  to  potter,  to  root,  to  rum 
mage.77 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Pedagog,  after 
a  moment  of  deliberation.  "  I  have  had 
an  attic,  but  it  never  seemed  to  me  to  be  a 
particularly  interesting  spot.  I7ve  used 
it  as  a  sort  of  store-room  for  things  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do  with.77 

"  Useless  things,77  suggested  Mr.  Peda 


"  Entirely  so,77  acquiesced  the  good  lady. 

"  Then  if  they  are  useless,  why  keep 
them  ?"  queried  the  Idiot.  "  Useless 
things  might  better  be  thrown  away  than 
stored  away  even  in  an  attic.77 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,77  rejoined  Mrs.  Peda 
gog,  "  they  were  useless  in  the  sense  that 
there  was  nothing  I  could  do  with  them, 
and  yet  there  wras  generally  some  quality  of 
association  or  something  about  them  that 
so  appealed  to  me  that  I  couldn7t  quite 
throw  them  away,  or  even  bring  myself  to 
give  them  away.77 

"  That  is  the  idea,77  said  the  Idiot. 
"  One7s  cherished  possessions  are  often 
stored'  awav  up-stairs  and  forgotten,  and 
86 


^'      ;?„  :    ;  ?•>  •;  » 

"'l    SET   OFF    A    GIANT    CRACKER   UNDER   HIS    CHAIR"' 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

then  sometimes  years  after  you'll  go  rum 
maging  about  the  house  for  lack  of  some 
other  employment ;  an  old  trunk,  a  wood 
en  box,  will  be  unearthed  in  the  attic, 
and  then  what  a  flood  of  memories  will 
come  rushing  back  over  you  as  the  long- 
forgotten  objects  come  to  light,  one  by 
one." 

"  I  have  had  much  the  same  experi 
ence,"  said  Mr.  Brief,  "  in  what  I  might 
term  my  professional  attic.  We  keep  a 
room  for  the  storage  of  old  papers,  and 
strange  exhibits  in  litigation  turn  up  there 
frequently  that  bring  back  old-time  law 
suits  in  a  most  interesting  fashion." 

"  I  suppose,  then,"  observed  Mr.  Peda- 
gog,  with  a  shrug  of  tolerant  contempt, 
"  that  the  attic  is,  in  your  estimation,  a  sort 
of  repository  for  family  archives." 

"That's  about  it,"  said  the  Idiot. 
".You  ought  to  see  mine.  There  are 
archives  from  the  Ark  in  mine.  I've  got 
all  the  portraits  of  my  unpopular  relatives 
up  there,  and  such  a  gallery  of  smug-look 
ing  individuals  you  never  saw.  There's 
Uncle  Jedediah,  who  hated  me  because  I 
set  off  a  giant  cracker  under  his  chair  one 
Fourth  of  July,  and  who  from  that  day 
vowed  I  wras  born  to  be  hanged;  and  who 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

sent  me  a  crayon  portrait  of  himself  the 
following  Christmas — 

"  That  seems  to  me  to  show  a  kindly 
feeling,  not  one  of  hatred,  towards  you," 
suggested  Mrs.  Pedagog. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  the  Idiot,  with  a  laugh. 
"  You  never  knew  my  dear  old  Uncle  Jed. 
He  sent  it  in  a  pure  spirit  of  revenge.  He 
had  to  send  something,  and  he  picked  out 
the  one  thing  he  had  reason  to  know  I 
didn't  want;  and  he  was  likewise  aware 
that  my  mother  had  a  sense  of  the  pro 
prieties  and  would  hang  that  portrait  upon 
the  Avail  of  my  bedroom,  whence  it  could 
stare  at  me,  disapprovingly,  forevermore. 
Still,  when  I  became  the  head  of  my  own 
house,  I  did  not  take  a  mean-spirited  re 
venge  on  Uncle  Jedediah's  portrait  by  sell 
ing  it  to  one  of  the  comic  papers  with 
a  joke  under  it;  I  gave  it  the  nicest, 
warmest,  most  comfortable  spot  I  could 
find  for  it  under  a  pile  of  old  magazines 
in  the  attic,  and  the  other  day  when  it 
came  to  light  again  I  greeted  it  with  an 
affectionate  smile;  and  the  picture  of  the 
old  gentleman  rising  hurriedly  from  over 
the  giant  cracker  on  that  long-forgotten 
Fourth,  brought  vividly  to  mind  by  the 
portrait,  brought  tears  to  my  eyes,  I  laugh- 
90 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

ed  so  heartily.  It  really  was  very  affect- 
ing." 

Mr.  Pedagog  gazed  at  the  Idiot  fondly. 

"  You  are  a  great  boy,"  he  said. 
"  You'd  never  suspect  it,  but  I  had  a 
similar  case  of  Uncle  Jed,  but  the  years 
I  have  lived  since  have  softened  my  feel 
ings  so  that  I  remember  my  old  relative 
with  a  certain  degree  of  affection." 

"  I  shall  never  believe,  my  dear  John," 
said  Mrs.  Pedagog,  "  that  in  your  day  boys 
ever  placed  giant  crackers  under  their 
uncles7  chairs." 

"  We  never  did,  my  love,"  Mr.  Pedagog 
responded,  quickly. 

"  Why,  of  course  not,"  laughed  the 
Idiot.  "  They  couldn't,  you  know.  They 
hadn't  been  invented.  What  was  your 
trouble  with  Uncle  Jed,  Mr.  Pedagog?" 

"  Oh,  our  difference  of  opinion  was 
rather  of  an  ethical  import,"  replied  Mr. 
Pedagog,  genially.  "  My  Uncle  Jed  was 
a  preacher,  and  he  used  to  speak  entirely 
from  notes  which  he  would  make  out  the 
night  before  and  place  in  the  pocket  of 
his  black  coat.  All  I  did  was  to  take  the 
notes  of  his  next  day's  sermon  out  of  his 
pocket  one  Saturday  evening,  and  put  in 
their  stead  a — ah — a  recipe  for  what  we 
93 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME" 

called  Washington  pie — and  a  very  good 
pie  it  was." 

"  John  !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Pedagog. 

"  I  did,  my  dear,"  confessed  the  School 
master,  "  and  really  I  have  never  regretted 
it,  although  my  particular  uncle  gave  me  a 
distressingly  acrid  and  dreary  lecture  on 
my  certain  future  when  he  found  out  what 
had  happened.  Yet  what  did  happen, 
though  mischievously  intended,  resulted 
in  great  good,  for  when  the  dear  old  gen 
tleman  stood  up  in  the  pulpit  and  started 
to  preach  the  next  morning,  with  the  re 
cipe  for  a  Washington  pie  as  the  only 
available  note  at  hand,  he  pulled  himself 
together  and  preached  off-hand  the  finest 
sermon  of  his  life,  and  he  discovered  then 
the  secret  of  his  after  -  success.  He  be 
came  known  ultimately  as  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  preachers  of  his  time,  and 
from  that  moment  never  went  into  the 
pulpit  with  any  factitious  aids  to  his  mem- 
ory." 

"  You  mean  cribs,  don't  you  ?"  asked  the 
Idiot. 

"  That  is  what  college-boys  call  them,  I 

believe,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog.     "  I  will  say 

further  that   a  year  before   he   died   my 

Uncle  Jed  told  me  that  it  was  my  mis- 

94 


"'  STARTED   TO    PREACH   WITH    THK    RECIPE   FOR   A 
WASHINGTON    PIE5" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

chievous  act  that  had  given  him  the  hint 
which  became  the  keynote  of  his  elo 
quence/'  he  added,  complacently.  "  I 
shall  always  remember  him  affectionate- 
ly." 

"Of  course/7  said  the  Idiot.  "  No 
doubt  we  all  remember  our  Uncle  Jeds 
affectionately.  I  certainly  do.  He  was 
my  mother's  brother,  and  he  meant  well. 
I  never  really  blamed  him  for  not  knowing 
how  to  sympathize  with  a  boyish  prank, 
because  there  has  never  been  a  school  of 
instructions  for  uncles.  Unclehood  is 
about  the  hardest  hood  man  has  to  wear, 
and  as  I  have  observed  uncles  and  their 
habits,  they  either  spoil  or  repel  the  small 
chaps  and  chappesses  who  happen  to  be 
made  their  nephews  and  nieces  by  an  acci 
dent  of  birth.  Uncles  are  either  intense 
ly  genial  or  intensely  irritable,  and  as  far 
as  I  am  concerned  it  is  my  belief  that  our 
colleges  should  include  in  their  curriculum 
a  chair  of  (  Uncleism.'  Unclehood  is  a  re 
lationship  that  man  has  to  accept.  It 
is  thrust  upon  him.  He  can't  help  him 
self.  To  be  a  father  or  a  mother  is  a 
matter  of  volition.  But  even  in  a  free 
country  like  our  own,  if  a  man  has  a 
brother  or  a  sister  he  is  liable  to  find  him- 
G  97 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

y 

self  an  uncle  at  any  time  whether  he  wishes 
to  be  one  or  not.  Then  when  it  happens 
he's  got  to  reason  out  a  course  of  proced 
ure  without  any  basis  in  previous  experi 
ence." 

"  Why  don't  you  write  a  book  on  '  Hints 
to  Uncles/  or  '  The  Complete  Aunt,'  "  sug 
gested  Mr.  Brief.  "  I  have  no  doubt  it 
would  make  good  reading." 

"  Thanks  for  the  idea,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  I  think  I'll  do  it.  ]XTot  in  the  hope  of 
profit,  but  for  the  benefit  of  the  race." 

"  What  has  all  this  to  do  with  attics  3" 
asked  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  The  natural  resting-place  of  the  bad 
uncle,"  explained  the  Idiot.  "  Still,  I 
maintain  that  it  is  every  man's  duty  to 
keep  an  attic  for  the  useless  things,  as 
Mrs.  Pedagog  calls  them,  which  some  day, 
when  he  least  expects  it,  will  carry  his 
mind  back  to  other  days.  The  word  it 
self,  attic,  carries  the  mind  back  to  the 
splendors  of  Athens  and  other  things  that 
are  out  of  date.  When  I  was  ill  I  found 
sincerest  pleasure  in  rummaging.  You 
can't  rummage  in  a  library  if  your  library 
is  properly  looked  after.  You  can't  rum 
mage  in  a  bedroom  in  a  well-kept  house. 
You  all  know  what  parlors  are — designed 
98 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

largely  for  the  reception  of  people  who 
come  out  to  call  upon  you  in  their  best  Sun 
day  clothes,  and  who  would  never  think  of 
calling  upon  you  intimately,  as  a  friend 
might,  in  his  knickerbockers.  You  can't 
rummage  there.  The  only  place  where 
one  may  rummage  with  any  degree  of 
success  is  in  the  attic,  and  my  experience 
has  been  such  that  I  believe  my  recent  ill 
ness  has  contributed  to  my  health.  My 
mind  has  been  carried  back  to  conditions 
that  used  to  be.  Conditions  which  existed 
then  and  which  were  inferior  to  conditions 
which  now  prevail  make  me  satisfied  with 
the  present.  Where  old  -  time  conditions 
were  better  than  the  existing  one  I  have 
naturally  discovered  how  to  improve. 
Rummaging,  therefore,  is  improving  to 
the  mind  and  contributes  to  one's  content 
ment. 

"  Then  there  are  good  economical  rea 
sons  for  the  maintenance  of  an  attic,"  the 
Idiot  continued.  "  I  found  enough  old 
boyhood  collections  of  various  things  there 
to  keep  Tommy  and  Mollie  happy  for 
years  without  my  having  to  pay  out  a  pen 
ny  for  birthday  presents — old  stamps,  old 
coins,  old  picture  papers,  and,  I  assure 
you,  a  lot  of  old  newspapers,  too,  with  bet- 
99 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

ter  and  more  readable  news  in  them  than 
is  now  to  be  found  in  any  of  our  modern 
bilious  journals.  Then  the  bundles  of 
letters  that  came  out  of  that  place — my 
mother's  letters  to  me,  written  while  I  was 
away  at  school;  my  father's  letters  in  the 
old  days  at  your  house,  Mrs.  Pedagog, 
which  did  much  to  keep  me  straight  then 
and  re-reading  of  which  doesn't  hurt  now ; 
and,  best  of  all,"  he  added,  with  an  affec 
tionate  glance  at  Mrs.  Idiot,  "  a  little 
bundle  of  my  own  letters  to  a  certain  per 
son  tied  up  with  a  blue  ribbon,  and  full 
of  pressed  roses  and  autumn  leaves  and 
promises — 

"  In  the  attic  ?"  asked  Mr.  Brief,  with  a 
dry  smile.  "  Is  that  where  Mrs.  Idiot 
keeps  your  promises  ?" 

Mrs.  Idiot  blushed.  "  I  have  a  cedar 
chest  full  of  treasures  up  there,"  she  said. 
"  I  thought  it  was  locked." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  I  found  them,"  said 
the  Idiot,  cheerfully ;  "  and  while  they 
were  not  especially  good  reading,  they 
were  good  reminders  of  other  days.  It 
wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  if  every  married 
man  were  to  read  over  the  letters  of  his 
days  of  courtship  once  a  year.  I  think  it 
would  bring  back  more  forcibly  than  any- 
100 


"4A  LITTLE   BUNDLE   OF   MY   OWN    LETTERS'" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

thing  else  the  conditions  of  the  contract 
which  he  was  inviting  the  young  partner 
of  his  joys  to  sign.  If  an  attic  never  held 
anything  but  bundles  of  one's  old  love- 
letters  it  would  demonstrate  its  right  to 
become  an  institution.'7 

"  Very  true/'  said  the  lawyer ;  "  but," 
he  added,  prompted  by  that  cautious  spirit 
which  goes  always  with  the  professional 
giver  of  advice,  "  suppose  that  side  by 
side  with  that  little  bundle  of  pressed 
flowers  and  autumn  leaves  and  promise's 
one  should  chance  to  find  another  little 
bundle  of  pressed  flowers  and  autumn 
leaves  and  promises — the  promises  writ 
ten  by  some  other  hand  than  the  hand  that 
is  rummaging  in  the  cedar  chest  ?  What 
then  ?  Would  that  prove  a  pleasing  find  ?" 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  the  Idiot  remarked, 
"  when  I  advocate  the  maintenance  of  an 
attic  as  one  of  the  first  duties  of  mankind, 
I  mean  its  intelligent  maintenance.  The 
thing  which  makes  of  the  British  Museum, 
the  National  Attic  of  Great  Britain,  a 
positive  educational  force  is  its  intelligent 
direction.  It  is  the  storehouse  of  the  use 
less  possessions  of  the  British  Empire 
which  have  an  inspiring  quality.  There 
is  nothing  in  it  which  makes  a  Briton  think 
103  - 


THE  IDIOT  AT  HOME 

less  of  himself  or  which  in  any  way  un 
pleasantly  disturbs  his  equanimity.  So 
with  the  attic  of  the  humble  citizen.  It 
must  be  intelligently  directed  if  it  is  to  be 
come  an  institution,  and  should  not  be 
made  the  repository  of  useless  things  which 
ought  to  be  destroyed,  among  which  I 
class  that  other  possible  bundle  to  which 
you  refer." 

And  inasmuch  as  the  whole  party  agreed 
to  the  validity  of  this  proposition,  the  sub 
ject  was  dropped,  and  the  Idiot  and  his 
guests  wandered  on  to  other  things. 


VI 

THE    IDIOMS    GARDEN" 

"  I  SHOULD  think,  my  dear  Idiot,"  Mr. 
Pedagog  observed  one  summer  evening,  as 
his  host  stood  upon  the  back  piazza  of 
"  Castle  Idiot,"  as  they  had  come  to  call 
the  dwelling-place  of  their  friend,  "  that 
with  all  this  space  you  have  about  you,  you 
would  devote  some  of  it  to  a  garden." 

"  Why,  I  do,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  I've 
got  a  small  patch  down  there  behind  the 
tennis-court,  fifty  by  one  hundred  feet, 
under  cultivation.  The  stuff  we  get  is 
almost  as  good  as  the  average  canned 
goods,  too.  We  had  a  stalk  of  asparagus 
the  other  night  that  was  magnificent  as  far 
as  it  went.  It  was  edible  for  quite  a 
sixteenth  of  an  inch,  or  at  least  I  was  told 
so.  That  portion  of  it  had  already  been 
nibbled  off  by  my  son  Thomas  while  it 
was  resting  in  the  pantry  waiting  to  be 
105 


THE   IDIOT  AT  HOME 

served.  However,  the  inedible  end  which 
arrived  was  quite  sturdy,  and  might  have 
stood  between  my  family  and  starvation  if 
the  necessity  had  arisen." 

"  One  stalk  of  asparagus  is  a  pretty 
poor  crop,  I  should  say/7  observed  the 
lawyer,  with  a  laugh. 

"  You  might  think  so,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  But  everything  in  the  world  is  com 
parative,  after  all.  Ants  build  ant-hills 
which  are  several  feet  lower  than,  the 
Alps,  and  yet  they  are  monumental,  con 
sidering  that  they  were  made  by  ants. 
All  things  considered,  Mrs.  Idiot  and  I 
were  proud  of  our  asparagus  crop,  and  dis 
tinctly  regretted  that  it  did  not  survive  to 
be  served  in  proper  state  at  dinner.  If 
I  remember  rightly,  Thomas  was  severely 
reprimanded  for  his  privateering  act  in 
biting  off  the  green  end  of  it  before  I  had 
a  chance  to  see  it." 

"  'Twasn't  specially  good,"  said  Tom 
my,  loftily. 

"  I  am  very  glad  it  was  not,  my  son," 
said  the  Idiot.  "  I  should  be  very  sorry 
to  hear  that  you  had  derived  the  slightest 
sensation  of  pleasure  from  your  piratical 
and  utterly  inexcusable  act." 

"  Do  you  usually  serve  so  small  a  por- 
106 


"  '  WE    SPRINKLED    IT    IN    PERSON 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

tion   of   the    product    of   your   garden?" 
asked  Mr.  Brief. 

"  Sometimes  we  don't  serve  anything 
at  all  from  it,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  which 
you  will  observe  is  smaller  yet.  In  this 
instance  Mrs.  Idiot  intended  a  little  sur 
prise  for  me.  We  had  struggled  with 
that  asparagus-bed  for  some  time.  The 
madame  had  studied  up  asparagus  in  her 
botany.  I  had  looked  it  up  in  the  cyclo-- 
pedia  and  the  Century  dictionary.  We 
had  ordered  it  in  various  styles  when  we 
dined  out  at  the  New  York  hotels,  and  we 
had  frequently  bought  cans  of  it  in  order 
to  familiarize  ourselves  more  intimately 
with  its  general  personal  appearance. 
Then  we  consulted  people  we  thought 
would  be  likely  to  know  how  to  obtain  the 
best  results,  and  what  they  told  us  to  do 
we  did,  but  somehow  it  didn't  work.  Our 
asparagus  crop  languished.  We  sprin 
kled  it  in  person.  We  put  all  sorts  of  gar 
den  cosmetics  on  it  to  improve  its  com 
plexion,  but  it  seemed  hopeless,  and  final 
ly  when  I  footed  up  the  asparagus  item  in 
my  account-book,  and  discovered  that  we 
had  paid  out  enough  money  without  re 
sults  of  a  satisfactory  nature  to  have  kept 
us  in  canned  asparagus  for  four  years,  we 
109 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

got  discouraged,  and  resolved  to  give  it 
up.  It  was  while  Michael,  our  gardener, 
was  removing  the  evidences  of  our  failure 
that  he  discovered  the  one  perfect  stalk, 
and  like  the  honest  old  gardener  that  he  is, 
he  immediately  brought  it  into  the  house 
and  presented  it  to  my  wife.  She  natu 
rally  rejoiced  that  our  efforts  had  not  been 
entirely  vain,  and  in  her  usual  spirit  of 
self-sacrifice  had  the  stalk  cooked  as  a 
surprise  for  me.  As  I  have  told  you,  that 
small  circumstance  Thomas,  over  which 
we  seem  to  have  no  control,  got  ahead  of 
us- 

"  You  was  surprised,  wasn't  you,  pa  ?" 
demanded  the  boy. 

"  Somewhat,  my  son,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  but  not  in  the  way  your  mother  had  de 
signed,  exactly." 

"  Is  asparagus  the  extent  of  your  gar 
dening  ?"  queried  Mrs.  Pedagog. 

"  Oh  no,  indeed !"  replied  Mrs.  Idiot. 
"  We've  had  peas  and  beets  and  beans  and 
egg-plant  and  corn — almost  everything, 
in  fact,  including  potatoes." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  almost 

everything,  including  potatoes.     Our  pea 

crop   was   lovely.     We   had   five   podfuls 

for  dinner  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  the 

110 


'"HE    DISCOVERED    THE    ONE    PERFECT    STALK 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

children  celebrated  the  day  by  podding 
them  for  the  cook.  They  popped  open 
almost  as  noisily  as  a  torpedo.  It  was 
really  very  enjoyable.  Indeed,  one  of 
the  results  of  that  pea  crop  has  been  to 
give  me  an  idea  by  which  I  may  some  day 
redeem  my  losses  on  the  asparagus-bed. 
An  explosive  pea  which  should  be  edible, 
and  yet  would  pop  open  with  the  noise  of 
a  small  fire-cracker,  would  be  a  delight  to 
the  children  and  serviceable  for  the  table. 
I  don't  exactly  know  how  to  bring  about 
the  desired  results,  but  it  seems  to  me  if 
I  were  to  mix  a  little  saltpetre  in  the  water 
with  which  we  irrigate  our  pea-trees  the 
required  snap  would  be  obtained.  Then 
on  the  Fourth  of  July  the  children,  in 
stead  of  burning  their  fingers  and  filling 
their  parents  with  nervous  dread  setting 
off  fire-crackers,  could  sit  out  on  the 
back  piazza  and  shell  the  peas  for  the 
cook—" 

"  I'd  rather  shell  Spangyards,"  said 
Mollie. 

"  I  am  surprised  at  you,  my  child,"  said 
the  Idiot.  "  A  little  girl  like  you  should 
be  an  advocate  of  peace,  not  of  war." 

"  You  can't  eat  Spaniards,  either,  can 
you,  pa?"  said  Tommy,  who,  while  he 
H  113 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

shared  Mollie's  views  as  to  the  compara 
tive  value  for  shelling  purposes  of  peas 
and  Spaniards,  was  nevertheless  quite  in 
terested  in  the  development  of  a  pea-pod 
that  would  open  with  a  bang. 

"No,  Tommy/'  said  the  Idiot,  "you 
can't  eat  Spaniards,  and  they'd  be  sure  to 
disagree  with  you  if  you  could." 

"  That  is  a  very  interesting  proposition 
of  yours,"  said  Mr.  Brief,  "  but  it  has  its 
dangers.  A  dynamite  pea  would  prove 
very  attractive  so  long  as  its  explosive 
qualities  were  confined  to  the  pod  and  its 
opening.  But  how  are  you  going  to  keep 
the  saltpetre  out  of  the  peas  themselves  ?" 

"  That  is  where  the  difficulty  comes  in," 
said  the  Idiot.  "  I  frankly  don't  know  how 
we  could  insulate  the  peas  from  the  effects 
of  the  saltpetre." 

"  It  would  be  deucedly  awkward,"  ob 
served  the  Bibliomaniac,  "  if,  as  might 
very  well  happen,  one  or  two  of  the  peas 
should  become  so  thoroughly  impregnated 
with  the  stuff  that  they  would  explode  in 
the  mouth  of  the  person  who  was  eating 
them,  like  bombs  in  miniature." 

"True,"  said  the  Idiot.  "The  only 
safeguard  against  that  would  be  to  com 
pel  the  cook  to  test  every  pea  before  she 
114 


e 
o  1 

is 


n    * 

5 I 

d   ^ 

si 

s;  3 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

cooked  it.  She  could  slam  them  down  on 
the  hearth-stone  like  torpedoes,  and  every 
one  that  didn't  go  off  could  be  cooked  and 
served  with  safety.  Still,  there  would 
be  danger  even  then.  A  careless  cook 
might  forever  ruin  the  teeth  of  a  favored 
guest.  I  guess  I'd  better  give  up  the 
idea." 

"  Oh,  don't,  pa !"  cried  Tommy,  his  in 
terest  in  explosive  vegetables  worked  up  to 
a  high  pitch.  "  I'll  test  'em  all  for  you, 
and  if  they  work  I  don't  see  why  you 
couldn't  raise  dynamite  punkins !" 

"  It  would  be  a  strong  temptation,  my 
son,"  said  the  Idiot,  "which  is  all  the 
more  reason  why  I  should  abandon  the 
plan.  A  dynamite  punkin,  as  you  call  it, 
would  wreck  the  whole  neighborhood  if 
one  should  set  it  off  properly.  No,  we 
will,  after  all,  confine  our  attention  to 
vegetables  of  a  more  pacific  nature.  The 
others  might  prove  more  profitable  at 
first,  but  when  the  novelty  of  them  wore 
off,  and  one  realized  only  their  danger,  a 
great  deal  of  the  pleasure  one  derives  from 
eating  fresh  vegetables  would  be  utterly 
destroyed." 

Tommy  looked  out  over  the  railing  of 
the   piazza,   deep   regret   and   disappoint- 
117 


THE  IDIOT  AT  HOME 

ment  depicted  in  his  brown  little  face ;  but 
if  the  glitter  of  his  eyes  meant  anything 
it  meant  that  the  idea  of  putting  vegeta 
bles  on  a  war  footing  was  not  going  to  be 
allowed  to  drop  into  oblivion;  and  if  the 
small  youth  progresses  in  inventive  genius 
in  a  fair  ratio  to  his  past  achievements  in 
that  line,  I  have  no  doubt  that  if  a  Vesu- 
vian  pumpkin  can  be  produced  at  all,  the 
day  will  dawn  when  Thomas  is  hailed  as 
its  inventor. 

als  it  true,"  asked  Mr.  Brief,  "that 
home-raised  peas  are  sweeter  than  any 
other  ?" 

"  We  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  We  know  so,"  amended  the  Idiot. 
"  That  Fourth-of-July  night  when  we  ate 
those  five  podfuls  we  discovered  that  fact. 
Five  podfuls  of  peas  are  not  enough  to 
feed  a  family  of  four  on,  so  we  mixed 
them  in  with  a  few  more  that  we  bought 
at  the  grocer's,  and  we  could  tell  ours  from 
the  others  every  time,  they  were  so  much 
sweeter." 

The  Bibliomaniac  laughed  scornfully. 

"  Pooh  !"  said  he.  "  How  did  you  know 
that  they  were  yours  that  were  sweet,  and 
not  the  grocery-bought  peas  ?" 

"  How  does  a  father  know  his  own  chil- 
118 


SHE    COULD   SLAM    THEM    DO\VN    ON    THE    HEARTHSTONES 

LIKE  TORPEDOES'" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

dren  ?"  said  the  Idiot.  "  If  you'd  labored 
over  those  five  pods  as  hard  and  assiduous 
ly  as  we  did,  nursing  them  through  their 
infant  troubles,  guarding  them  against 
locusts  and  potato-bugs,  carefully  watch 
ing  their  development  from  infancy  into 
the  full  vigor  of  a  mature  peahood,  I 
guess  you'd  know  your  own  from  those  of 
others.  It's  instinct,  my  dear  Biblio 
maniac." 

"  Tell  about  the  strawberry,  pa/'  said 
Tommy,  who  liked  to  hear  his  father  talk, 
in  which  respect  I  fear  he  takes  strongly 
after  his  parent. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  it's  not  much 
of  a  story.  There  was  one.  We  had  a 
strawberry  patch  twenty  feet  by  ten.  We 
had  plenty  of  straw  and  plenty  of  patch, 
but  the  berries  were  timid  about  appear 
ing.  The  results  were  ^imilar  to  those  in 
our  asparagus  venture.  One  berry  was  dis 
covered  trying  to  hide  itself  under  half  a 
bale  of  straw  one  morning,  and  while  I 
was  looking  for  Mrs.  Idiot,  to  ask  her  to 
come  down  to  the  garden  and  see  it  grow, 
a  miserable  robin  came  along  and  bit  its 
whole  interior  out.  I  hope  the  bird  en 
joyed  it,  because  on  a  bed-rock  estimate 
that  berry  cost  twenty  dollars.  That  is 
121 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

one  of  the  things  about  gardening  that 
make  me  especially  weary.  One  doesn't 
mind  spending  forty-four  dollars  on  a 
stalk  of  asparagus  that  is  eaten,  even  sur 
reptitiously,  by  a  member  of  one's  own 
family;  but  to  pay  twenty  dollars  for  a 
strawberry  to  be  wasted  on  a  fifteen-cent 
robin  is,  to  say  the  least,  irritating." 

"  You  forget,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot, 
with  a  somewhat  mirthful  look  in  her 
eyes,  "  that  we  got  fifteen  boxes  out  of 
the  strawberry-patch  later." 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  I  was 
coming  to  that,  and  it  involves  a  confes 
sion.  You  were  so  blue  about  the  loss  of 
our  one  beautiful  berry  that  I  entered 
into  a  conspiracy  with  Michael  to  make 
that  patch  yield.  The  fifteen  boxes  of 
berries  that  we  took  out  subsequently 
were  bought  at  a  New  York  fruit-store 
and  judiciously  scattered  about  the  patch 
where  you  would  find  them.  I  had 
hoped  you  would  never  find  it  out,  but 
when  you  spoke  the  other  day  of  expend 
ing  thirty-eight  dollars  on  that  strawber 
ry-patch  next  year,  I  resolved  then  to  un 
deceive  you.  This  is  the  first  favorable 
opportunity  I  have  had." 

Mrs.  Idiot  laughed  heartily.  "  I  knew 
122 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

it  all  along,"  she  said.     "  Michael  came  to 
me  with  them  and  asked  for  instructions 
as   to   where   to   put   them.     Really,   I— 
ah — I  arranged  them  under  the  straw  my 
self." 

"  What  an  ass  a  hired  man  can  be !" 
ejaculated  the  Idiot.  "  I  shall  discharge 
Michael  to-morrow." 

"  I  wish  you  would/'  said  Mrs.  Idiot. 
"  Ever  since  the  conspiracy  he  has  been 
entirely  too  independent." 

"  Don't  discharge  Michael,  papa,"  said 
Mollie.  "  He's  awful  nice.  He's  al 
ways  willin'  to  stop  anything  he's  doing 
to  play  with  Tommy  and  me." 

"  You  bet  he  is !"  cried  Tommy.  "  He's 
a  dandy,  Mike  is.  He  never  says  a  word 
when  I  sit  under  the  sprinkler,  and  he 
told  me  the  other  day  that  his  grandfather 
would  have  been  king  of  Ireland  if  Queen 
Victoria  hadn't  come  in.  He  said  the 
Queen  was  a  lady,  and  his  grandfather 
gave  up  his  seat  to  her  because  he  was  a 
gentleman  and  couldn't  do  anything 
else." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Idiot,  suavely. 
"  Then  I  won't  discharge  Michael.     One 
feels  a  better  American,  a  better  Repub 
lican,  if  he  has  a  royal  personage  in  his 
123 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

employ.  I  always  wondered  where 
Michael  got  his  imperious  manner;  now 
I  know.  As  a  descendant  of  a  long  line 
of  kings  it  could  not  be  otherwise.  I 
will  give  him  another  chance.  But  let 
me  give  you  all  fair  warning.  If  next 
summer  Michael  does  not  succeed  in  pro 
ducing  from  my  garden  four  beets,  ten  pods 
of  peas,  three  string-beans,  and  less  than 
ten  thousand  onions,  he  goes.  I  shall  not 
pay  a  gardener  forty  dollars  a  month  un 
less  he  can  raise  three  dollars'  worth  of 
vegetables  a  year." 

"  But  really,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog, 
"  haven't  you  raised  anything  in  your  gar 
den?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I've 
raised  my  water  bill  in  the  garden.  I 
used  to  pay  twelve  dollars  a  quarter  for 
water,  but  now  the  bills  come  to  at  least 
twenty-five  dollars.  Truly,  a  garden  is 
not  without  profit  to  some  one." 


VII 

HOUSEHOLD   POETRY 

"  YES,"  said  the  Idiot,  in  response  to 
an  inquiry  from  the  Poet,  who  was  pass 
ing  a  Sunday  with  him  at  Castle  Idiot, 
"  I  have  found  that  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  poetry  in  the  apparently  uninspiring 
little  things  of  a  household.  There  is  to 
me  as  much  poetry  in  a  poker  as  there  is 
in  a  snow-clad  Alp,  if  you  only  have  an 
eye  to  find  it ;  and  I  am  sure  that  to  thou 
sands  of  housewives  the  whole  land  over 
a  sonnet  to  a  clothes-pin,  written  by  one 
who  knows  the  clothes-pin's  nature  inti 
mately,  would  be  far  more  appealing  than 
a  similar  number  of  lines  trying  to  prove 
that  we  are  all  miserable  phantoms  flit 
ting  across  a  morass  of  woe." 

The  Poet  pulled  away  thoughtfully  at 

his  pipe.     He  was  a  broad-minded  poet, 

and  while  he  had  never  owned  a  poker  of 

his  own,  he  was  ready  to  admit  its  possj- 

125 


THE   IB1OT   AT   HOME 

bilities;  but  lie  could  not  follow  his 
friend  closely  enough  to  admit  that  it 
contained  as  much  that  was  inspiring  as 
did  Mont  Blanc,  for  instance,  a  bright 
particular  Alp  of  which  he  was  very  fond. 

The  Idiot  continued : 

"  A  ton  of  coal  contains  far  more 
warmth  than  a  woman's  eyebrow;  sends 
the  mind  of  a  thoughtful  person  chasing 
backward  to  the  time  when  it  lay  snugly 
hid  in  the  fair  breast  of  nature;  to  the 
joys  and  woes  of  the  toilers  who  mined 
it ;  through  a  variety  of  complexities  of 
life,  every  one  of  them  fraught  with  noble 
thoughts.  Yet  who  ever  wrote  dainty 
verses  to  a  ton  of  coal,  and  who  hasn't  at 
one  time  or  another  in  his  life  written 
about  the  eyebrows  of  some  woman?" 

The  Poet  laughed  this  time.  "  A  trio 
let  to  a  ton  of  coal  would  be  a  glorious 
thing  now,  wouldn't  it?"  he  observed. 

"  No,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  A  triolet 
could  never  be  a  glorious  thing  under  any 
circumstances;  but  to  the  extent  that  a 
ton  of  coal  contains  a  certain  amount  of 
grandeur  in  the  service  it  renders  to  man 
kind,  I  think  the  form  would  be  ennobled 
somewhat  by  the  substance.  Let's  try  it 
and  see." 

126 


'"THE  JOYS  AND  WOKS  OF  THE  TOILERS  WHO 
IT  ' " 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  You  do  it,"  said  the  Poet ;  "  I  really 
don't  think  I  could  do  the  subject  jus 
tice." 

The  Idiot  got  out  a  pencil  and  a  pad 
of  paper  and  began. 

"  I  don't  think  I'll  make  it  a  triolet/' 
he  said,  after  biting  the  end  of  his  pencil 
for  a  few  moments.  "  A  whole  ton  is  a 
good  deal  to  cram  into  a  triolet.  I'll  just 
make  it  a  plain  poem  of  the  go-as-you- 
please  variety  instead,  eh  ?" 

"  In  the  manner  of  Whitman,  per 
haps?"  suggested  the  Poet,  dryly. 

"Just  so,"  said  the  Idiot.  "In  the 
manner  of  Whitman;  in  fact,  I  think  the 
manner  of  Whitman  is  the  only  manner  for 
the  poetic  description  of  a  ton  of  coal." 

He  began  to  scribble  on  the  pad. 

"  I'm  going  to  call  this  i  Content,'  "  he 
said  in  a  few  moments.  "  Contentment 
strikes  me  as  the  main  lesson  a  ton  of 
coal  teaches." 

He  scribbled  on,  and  in  four  or  five 
minutes  he  put  down  his  pencil  and  read 
the  following  lines: 

"  I'm  glad  I'm  not  as  men  are — • 
Always   worrying   about   something,   and   often 

about  nothing; 
About  what  was  and  what  wasn't; 

i  129 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

Fretting  about  what  may  be  and  what  might 
have  been; 

Wondering  whether  when  they  are  called  upon  to 
do  their  duty 

They'll  be  able  to  do  it, 

And  generally  deciding  they  won't, 

To  their  own  discomfort. 

And  if  so  be  they're  women, 

Cogitating  from  morn  till  night, 

From  night  till  morn, 

Wherewithal  shall  they  be  clothed, 

And  if  their  hats  are  on  straight! 

Yea! 

I  am  glad  I  am  not  like  one  of  these, 

But  am  myself — 

A  ton  of  coal — jetty  in  my  blackness  and  lumi 
nous  in  my  bituminosity. 

Lying  here  in  the  cellar  content  and  not  bother 
ing  a  bit. 

Not  needing  income  or  clothes,  and  wearing  no 
hat,  and  with  no  complexion  to  bother  about. 

Happy  and  serene  about  my  duty, 

Certain  that  I  shall  succeed  when  the  time  for 
action  comes; 

Knowing  that  I  shall  burn, 

And  in  the  burning  glow  like  the  polar  star. 

Cackling  and  crackling, 

Hissing  and  smoking, 

Full  of  heat, 

A  satisfaction  to  mankind, 

And  never  worth  less  than  $5.65,  delivered! 

Ah,  me !     What  bliss  to  be  a  ton  of  coal ! 

I  am  content." 

The  Poet  nodded  his  pleasure  at  the 

effort.       "  It     is     charmingly     put/'     he 

said.     "  I  must  confess,  my  dear  Idiot, 

that  the  idea  of  contentment  is  the  last; 

130 


'FOR  THOUGH  I'M  BUT  A  CARPET-TACK 

AFAR  FROM  MOIL  AND  STRIFE, 
NO  ONE  CAN  EVER  TRULY  SAY 

THAT  MINE'S  A   POINTLESS  LIFE'" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

one  that  I  should  ever  have  extracted 
from  contemplation  of  a  binful  of  anthra 
cite,  and  yet  when  I  consider  how  you  put 
it  I  wonder  it  has  not  occurred  to  every 
one.  You  have  the  manner  of  the  Whit 
man  parodist  down  fine,  too.7' 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  It  is 
entirely  natural  to  me.  I  think,  too,  that 
using  the  Whitman  lack  of  form  carries 
with  it  the  notion  of  the  coal  sliding  down 
the  chute,  don't  you  ?  Coal  runs  into  the 
cellar  in  such  an  irresponsible,  formless 
way,  eh  ?" 

"Precisely,"  smiled  the  Poet.  "You 
have  the  right  notion  about  that.  The 
form  of  a  poem  should  really  be  adapted 
to  the  substance.  It  should  be  descrip 
tive,  always.  Tennyson's  '  Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade  '  has  in  its  rhythm  nothing 
more  or  less  than  the  clatter  of  the  horses' 
hoofs  as  they  and  their  riders  dashed 
through  the  valley  of  death  at  Balaklava. 
And  how  vividly  SoTithey's  brook  comes 
before  the  mind  in  its  mad  rush  down 
ward  as  one  reads  thajt  wonderfully  lyri 
cal  poem.  Why  don't  you  write  a  book 
of  household  poetry?  You  seem  to  me 
to  be  eminently  well  qualified  to  under 
take  it." 

133 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"I  intend  to,"  said  the  Idiot.  "In 
fact,  I've  begun  it  already.  Written  five 
or  six.  Like  to  see  'em?" 

"Indeed  I  should/'  said  the  Poet. 
"  Anything  you  do  interests  me." 

The  Idiot  went  to  his  desk  and  took 
from  it  a  few  pages  of  manuscript. 

"  Here  is  a  thing  on  pokers  I  did  the 
other  night.  I  called  it  '  The  Song  of 
the  Poker  Bold.' '  And  then  he  read 
these  lines : 

"  Warder  of  the  grate  am  I, 

Ever  standing  near ; 
Poking,  poking  all  day  long, 
Knowing  naught  of  fear. 

"  Keeping  coals  up  to  their  work, 

Setting  them  aglow,. 
Minding  not  the  scorching  heat, 
Rather  like  it  so. 

"  Knocking  ashes  right  and  left, 

Flirting  with  the  tiles ; 
Bossing  tongs  and  seeing  that 
The  brazen  kettle  biles. 

"And  the  little  girls  and  boys 
.     .    <  >  'As  they  wateh  me  pause, 
;  Wishing -'t  feat  I'd  talk  and  tell 
'Bout  old  Santa  Glaus! 

"  Cracking  jokes  with  crickets  on 

The  merry  hearth,  elate; 
Happy  lot  indeed  is  mine — 
Warder  of  the  grate!" 

134 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  Splendid !"  cried  the  Poet,  clapping 
his  hands  with  enthusiasm.  "  Splendid ! 
A  good  stiff  pokeresque  lyric,  and  your 
characterization  of  the  poker  as  the 
'  Warder  of  the  Grate7  gives  it  a  flavor 
of  romance.  You  could  almost  imagine 
the  implement  going  out  into  a  mediaeval 
world  in  search  of  knightly  adventure — 
a  sort  of  hearth-stone  Quixote.  Have  you 
tackled  the  clothes-pin  yet?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  "idiot.  "  Indeed, 
my  first  effort  was  a  lyric  on  the  clothes 
pin.  I  started  one  night  to  do  the  con 
tents  of  the  kitchen-dresser  drawer  in 
French  forms,  but  the  first  thing  I  took 
out  was  an  egg-beater,  and  it  wouldn't  go, 
so  I  did  the  clothes-pin  lyric.  I  call  it 

" '  FIDELITY 


"  Blow,  ye  winds, 
I  fear  ye  not; 
Blast,  ye'simoon, 
Sere  and  hot! 

"  Hurricane, 

And  cyclone,  too, 
Blow,  I  have  no 
Fear  of  you. 

"  Lacking  beauty, 
Lacking  grace, 

135 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

Lacking  handsome 
Form  and  face; 

"  Lacking  soul 

And  intellect, 
Still  I  stand  up, 
Proud,  erect. 

"  For  the  Fates 

Have  given  me 
Wondrous  great 
Tenacity. 

"  And  success, 

Both  fair  and  fine, 
Comes  to  him 

Who  holds  his  line. 

"  Burrs  can  stick 

And  so  can  glue — 
Mucilage, 

Stratena,  too ; 

"  But  there's  nothing 

Holds  so  fast 

As  the  clothes-pin 

To  the  last." 


"  And  you  gave  up  the  egg-beater  al 
together  ?"  asked  the  Poet,  restraining  a 
natural  inclination  to  find  flaws  in  the 
construction  of  the  clothes-pin  poem. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  I  knocked 
off  a  little  quatrain  on  that.  I  called  it 
'  The  Speedy  Egg-Beater/  and  it  goes 
like  this : 

136 


SHOULD  HESITATE  TO  TRY  TO  DRIVE  A  CAN-AL  BOAT1 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  Great  Maude  S.  can  beat  all  steeds, 

However  speedy  be  their  legs; 
But  I  distance  her  with  ease 
When  it  comes  to  beating  eggs." 

"  I  really  think  that  you  would  have 
done  better  to  give  up  the  egg-beater/' 
said  the  Poet,  grown  critical.  "  I've  no 
patience  with  one-rhymed  quatrains.  Now 
if  you  had  written : 

"  Great  Maude  S.  can  beat  all  steeds, 

However  speedy  be  their  legs ; 
But  despite  her  doughty  deeds; 
I  can  beat  her  beating  eggs, 


I  should  not  have  objected." 

"  I  accept  the  amendment/'  replied  the 
Idiot,  meekly.  "  I  realized  the  weakness 
of  the  thing  myself,  and  thought  of 
changing  it  into  a  couplet,  where  you 
only  need  one  rhyme.  How's  this  on  a 
'  Carpet-Tack'  ? 

"  However  dull  the  day, 

However  dull  the  skies, 
However  dark  the  night  may  be, 
My  spirits  ever  rise. 

"  For  though  I'm  but  a  carpet-tack, 

Afar  from  moil  and  strife, 
No  one  can  ever  truly  say 
That  mine's  a  pointless  life." 

"  That  is  very  good,"   said  the  Poet. 
139 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  I  think  almost  any  editor  of  any  comic 
paper  would  be  willing  to  pay  you  three 
dollars  for  that.  It  is  as  good  as  your 
poem  on  a  ton  of  coal — simple  in  its  ex 
pression  and  sweet  in  sentiment." 

"  I  thought  you'd  think  so/'  said  the 
Idiot.  "  It  struck  me  so.  I've  got  one 
on  a  screw-driver,  too,  that  is  very  much 
of  the  same  order,  and  conveys  a  moral 
lesson  to  the  reader  who  is  always  reach 
ing  out  after  the  unattainable.  It  reads 
as  follows: 

"  I  cannot  tool  a  tally-ho, 
I  cannot  drive  a  nag ; 
I  dare  not  hold  the  ribbons 
On  a  hack  or  rumbling  drag. 

"  I  could  not  guide  the  reins  upon 

A  simple  billy-goat, 
And  I  should  hesitate  to  try 
To  drive  a  can-al  boat. 


But  I  don't  mind  these  things  at  all, 
For  I  can  drive  a  screw, 

And  I  am  happy,  for  that's  just 
What  I  was  meant  to  do." 


"  The  fourth  line  of  the  second  verse 
is  weak,   but   otherwise   it's   good,"   com 
mented  the  Poet.  "  It's  not  a  can-al  boat ; 
it's  a  can-al  boat,  and  all  the  poetic  li- 
140 


'i  HAVEN'T  EVER  HAD  A  HOME;  I'VE  ALWAYS  BOARDED'" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

cense  in  the  world  wouldn't  excuse  your 
taking  such  a  liberty  with  language." 

"  I  appreciate  that/7  said  the  Idiot. 
"  But  I  don't  see  how  I  could  get  around 
it." 

"  There's  only  one  way,"  said  the  Poet. 
"  I  think  if  you  omitted  that  verse  alto 
gether  you'd  improve  the  poem." 

"  Then  I  should  have  to  eliminate  the 
billy-goat,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  That  takes 
a  great  deal  of  humor  out  of  it.  I  al 
ways  laugh  when  I  encounter  a  beast 
like  that  in  poetry;  he  seems  so  helpless 
when  incarcerated  in  a  poem." 

"  That  may  be,"  observed  the  Poet. 
"  But  it  is  my  belief  that  the  goat,  of 
all  animals  in  the  kingdom,  was  the  last 
one  designed  to  be  used  in  poetry,  any 
how.  He  is  bad  enough  in  prose,  and  in 
this  case  will  butt  your  poem  to  oblivion 
if  you  insist  on  keeping  him  in  it.  Any 
more  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  Idiot;  "that's  the 
last." 

"  Well,  you've  got  a  good  start,"  said 
the  Poet,  rising  to  light  his  pipe,  which 
had  gone  out.  "  And  if  I  were  you  I'd 
go  on  and  finish  the  book.  (  The  Idiot's 
Book  of  Household  Poetry'  would  have 
143 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

a  great  •  sale.  It  has  but  one  drawback 
that  I  can  see.  You  harp  on  one  string 
too  much.  Every  one  of  your  poems 
preaches  contentment,  satisfaction — noth 
ing  else." 

"  That,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  is  not  an  ob 
jection,  but  a  virtue;  for  what  other  les 
son,"  he  added,  with  a  glance  of  pride  at 
his  surroundings,  "  what  other  lesson,  my 
dear  Poet,  should  a  home  try  to  teach, 
and  what  other  sentiment  can  mean  so 
much  to  mankind  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Poet,  with  a 
little  sigh.  "  I  haven't  ever  had  a  home ; 
I've  always  boarded." 

Whereupon  the  Idiot  rose  up  from  his 
chair,  and  putting  his  arm  about  his 
friend's  shoulder,  said : 

"  How  you  do  talk !  Never  had  a 
home?  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  what's 
this  ?  It's  yours  as  long  as  it's  mine !" 


VIII 

SOME   CONSIDERATION   OF   THE   HIRED   MAN 

"  WHO  is  that  sitting  down  on  your  ten 
nis-court,  Mr.  Idiot?"  asked  Mr.  Brief, 
the  lawyer.  "  Or  is  it  anybody  ?  I've  been 
trying  for  the  last  half-hour  to  make  out 
whether  it's  a  man  or  one  of  those  iron 
figures  with  which  some  people  decorate 
their  lawns." 

"  That,"  replied  the  Idiot,  calmly,  "  is 
my  hired  man.  I  pay  him  forty  dollars  a 
month  to  sit  down  there  and  let  the  grass 
grow  under  his  feet.  I  heard  you  and  Mr. 
Pedagog  discussing  the  wonderful  grassi- 
ness  of  my  lawn  after  dinner  last  night, 
and  I  meant  to  have  told  you  then  that  the 
credit  thereof  belongs  entirely  to  the  rest 
ful  nature  of  that  man's  soul.  He  will 
stand  for  hours  rooted  to  one  spot  and 
looking  with  apparent  aimlessness  out  over 
the  river.  To  most  people  this  would  seem 
K  145 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

to  be  prompted  by  a  sheer  indisposition  to 
work,  but  this  would  do  him  a  rank  in 
justice,  for  his  immovability  is  due  en 
tirely  to  his  system.  He  is  letting  the 
grass  grow  beneath  him,  and  the  fact  that 
our  grass  is  so  nourishing  everywhere  is 
due  to  his  having  stood  for  hours  at 
various  times  over  every  square  inch 
of  territory  to  which  I  hold  the  title- 
deeds." 

The  Idiot  gazed  out  of  the  window  at 
his  retainer  with  affectionate  admiration. 

"  He  certainly  clings  closely  to  his  sys 
tem,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  He  is  a  model/'  said  the  Idiot.  "  He 
has  done  more  to  make  my  life  here  easy 
than  any  one  in  my  service.  For  instance, 
you  know  the  hurly-burly  of  existence  in 
town.  I  go  to  my  office  in  the  morning, 
and  whether  I  have  much  work  or  little  to 
do,  I  come  home  in  the  afternoon  abso 
lutely  worn  out.  The  constant  hustling 
and  bustling  of  others  in  the  city  wears 
upon  my  mind,  and  consequently  upon  my 
body.  The  rush  and  roar  of  cables  and 
electric-cars ;  the  activity  of  messengers 
running  to  and  fro  in  the  streets ;  the 
weary  horses  dragging  great  lumbering 
wagons  up  and  down  the  crowded 
146 


*^«U 


I  FEEL  THAT  I  COULD  GO  OUT  AND  MOW  THREE  ACRES 
OF  GRASS'" 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

thoroughfares,  all  affect  my  nature  and 
impair  my  energy;  and  then,  the  day's 
work  done,  I  return  here,  where  all  is  quiet 
and  still,  and  the  very  contrast  between 
that  man,  standing  silently  on  his  ap 
pointed  spot,  or  leaning  against  the  house, 
or  lying  off  in  sheer  content  under  some 
tree,  and  the  mad  scramble  for  lucre  in  the 
city,  invigorates  my  tired  body  until  I  feel 
that  I  could  go  out  and  mow  three  acres 
of  grass  before  dinner;  in  fact,  I  gene 
rally  do." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  a  restful  nature 
was  a  requisite  of  a  successful  career  as  a 
hired  man,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  It  is  evident,  then,  that  you  have 
never  had  a  hired  man/7  rejoined  the 
Idiot.  "  Nor  can  you  ever  have  studied 
the  species  at  close  range.  Ceaseless  ac 
tivity  would  be  his  ruin.  If  he  did  to-day 
all  there  is  to  do,  he  would  be  out  of 
employment  to-morrow,  consequently  he 
never  does  to-day's  work  to-day,  and  culti 
vates  that  leisurely  attitude  towards  life 
upon  which  you  have  commented.  Do  you 
see  that  small  beech-tree  over  there?"  he 
added,  pointing  to  a  scrawny  little  sapling 
whose  sole  virtue  appeared  to  be  its  rigid 
uprightness. 

149 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  Is  that  a  beech  -  tree  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Brief.  "  I  thought  it  was  a  garden 
stake." 

"  It  is  a  beech-tree,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  I  planted  it  myself  last  autumn,  and 
while  it  has  as  yet  borne  no  beeches,  I 
think  if  we  give  it  time,  and  it  withstands 
the  rigors  of  the  climate,  it  will  produce 
its  fruit.  But  it  was  not  of  its  possibili 
ties  as  a  beech-bearing  tree  that  I  intended 
to  speak.  I  wanted  to  indicate  to  you  by 
a  material  object  the  value  of  having  a 
hired  man  who  likes  to  lean  against  things. 
At  the  close  of  this  last  winter  that  tree, 
instead  of  being  as  erect  as  a  grenadier, 
as  it  now  is,  was  all  askew.  The  strong 
westerly  winds  which  are  constantly  blow 
ing  across  that  open  stretch  bent  the  thing 
until  it  seemed  that  the  tree  was  bound  to 
be  deformed ;  but  Mike  overcame  the  diffi 
culty.  He  would  go  out  day  after  day  and 
sit  down  beside  it  and  lean  against  it  for 
two  and  three  hours  at  a  time,  with  the 
result  that  the  tendency  to  curve  was  over 
come,  and  a  tree  that  I  feared  was  doomed 
to  fail  now  bids  fair  to  resemble  a  suc 
cessful  telegraph-pole  in  its  uprightness. 
And,  of  course,  the  added  warmth  of  his 
body  pressing  down  upon  the  earth  which 
150 


'"HE  WOULD  GO  OUT  DAY  AFTER  DAY  AND  SIT  DOWN 
BESIDE  IT'" 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

covers  its  roots  gave  it  an  added  impulse 
to  grow." 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  system,"  smiled  Mr. 
Brief.  "  I  wonder  it  is  not  adopted  every 
where." 

"  It  is,  pretty  much,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  Most  hired  men  do  the  same  thing.  I 
don't  think  Mike  differs  radically  from 
others  of  his  kind.  Of  course,  there  are 
exceptions.  My  neighbor  Jimpsonberry, 
for  instance,  has  a  man  who  is  so  infer 
nally  unrestful  that  he  makes  everybody 
tired.  He  is  up  every  morning  mowing 
Jimpsonberry's  lawn  at  five  o'clock,  wak 
ing  up  every  sleepy  soul  within  ear-shot 
with  the  incessant  and  disturbing  clicking 
of  his  machine.  Mike  would  never  think 
of  making  such  a  nuisance  of  himself. 
Furthermore,  Jimpsonberry's  lawn  is  kept 
so  close-cropped  that  the  grass  doesn't  get 
any  chance,  and  in  the  heat  of  midsummer 
turns  to  a  dull  brick-red." 

After  a  pause,  during  which  the  com 
pany  seemed  to  be  deeply  cogitating  the 
philosophical  bearing  of  the  subject  under 
discussion,  the  Idiot  resumed: 

"  There  is  another  aspect  of  this  mat 
ter,"  he  said,  "  which  Jiinpsonberry's  man 
brings  to  my  mind.  You  know  as  well  as 
153 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

I  do  that  heat  is  contagious.  If  you  feel 
as  cool  as  a  cucumber,  and  then  all  of  a 
sudden  see  somebody  who  is  dripping  with 
perspiration  and  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  a  human  kettle  simmering  on  a  kitch 
en-range,  you  begin  to  simmer  yourself. 
It  is  mere  sympathy,  of  course,  but  you 
simmer  just  the  same,  get  uncomfortable 
and  hot  in  the  collar,  and  are  shortly  as 
badly  off  as  the  other  fellow.  So  it  is  with 
Jimpsonberry's  man.  Time  and  time 
again  he  has  spoiled  all  my  pleasure  by 
making  me  realize  by  a  glance  at  his  red 
face  and  sweating  arms  how  beastly  hot  it 
is,  when  before  I  had  seen  him  I  felt  toler 
ably  comfortable.  Mike,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  not  so  inconsiderate,  and  I  am 
confident  would  let  the  grass  grow  a  mile 
high  before  he  would  consent  to  interfere 
with  my  temperature  by  pushing  the 
mower  up  and  down  the  lawn  on  a  humid 
day." 

"  Do  you  keep  this  interesting  specimen 
of  still  life  all  through  the  year  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Brief,  "  or  do  you  give  him  a  much- 
needed  vacation  in  winter  ?  I  should 
think  he  would  be  worn  out  with  all  this 
standing  around,  for  nothing  that  I  know 
of  is  more  tiresome  than  doing  nothing." 
154 


HE   SHOVELS   OFF   A   FOOT-PATH7" 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  No,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  Mike  never 
seems  to  need  a  vacation.  Sitting  down 
and  leaning  against  things  and  standing 
around  don't  seem  to  tire  him  in  the  least. 
It  might  tire  you  or  me,  but  you  see  he's 
used  to  it.  The  only  effect  it  has  on  him, 
as  I  view  the  matter,  is  that  it  wears  out 
his  clothes.  It  doesn't  impair  his  lack  of 
vigor  at  all.  So  by  the  simple  act  of  occa 
sionally  renewing  his  wardrobe,  which  I  do 
every  time  I  discard  a  suit  of  my  own,  I 
revive  his  wasted  vitality,  and  he  does  not 
require  to  be  sent  to  Europe,  or  to  take 
an  extended  tour  in  the  White  Mountains 
to  recuperate.  I  keep  him  all  through 
the  winter,  and  his  system  is  quite  the 
same  then  as  in  summer,  except  that  he 
does  his  sitting  around  and  leaning  in 
doors  instead  of  in  the  open." 

"  I  suppose  he  looks  after  the  furnace 
and  keeps  the  walks  clear  of  snow  in  win 
ter  time?"  suggested  Mr.  Pedagog,  who 
was  beginning  to  take  an  interest  in  this 
marvellously  restful  personage. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Idiot ;  "  and  he  attends 
to  the  windows  as  well.  As  a  minder  of 
the  furnace  he  is  invaluable.  My  house 
is  as  cool  as  a  roof-garden  all  through  the 
winter,  and  thanks  to  his  unwillingness  to 
157 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

over-exert  himself  shovelling  coal  into  the 
furnace,  I  burn  only  about  half  as  much 
as  my  neighbors,  and  my  house  is  never 
overheated.  This  in  itself  is  an  indication 
of  the  virtue  of  Mike's  method.  One-half 
of  the  colds  contracted  by  children  nowa 
days  are  the  result  of  overheated  houses. 
Mike's  method  gives  me  a  cool  house  at 
very  moderate  expense,  owing  to  the  great 
saving  of  coal,  the  children  do  not  get 
colds  because  of  overheating,  and  the  ex 
pense  of  having  a  doctor  every  other  day 
is  averted.  Then  his  snow  -  shovelling 
scheme  goes  back  to  the  first  principles  of 
nature.  Mike  is  not  overawed  by  conven 
tion,  and  instead  of  following  the  steps  of 
other  men  who  shovel  the  snow  entirely  off, 
he  shovels  off  a  footpath  to  enable  me  to  go 
to  business,  and  then  sits  down  and  over 
sees  the  sun  while  it  melts  the  balance. 
Sometimes,  if  the  sun  does  not  do  the  work 
promptly  enough  to  suit  him,  he  gets  up 
little  contests  for  the  children.  He  divides 
up  certain  portions  of  the  walk  into  equal 
parts,  and  starts  the  small  boys  on  a  race 
to  see  which  one  will  get  the  portion  as 
signed  to  him  cleaned  off  first,  the  prize 
being  something  in  the  nature  of  an  apple, 
which  the  cook  orders  from  the  market.  I 
158 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

believe  my  son  Thomas  won  ten  apples  last 
winter,  although  I  am  told  that  the  Jimp- 
sonberry  boy,  whose  father's  man  is  cross, 
and  insists  on  doing  all  the  work  himself, 
is  the  champion  snow-shoveller  of  the 
street." 

"Yes,  he  is,  pa,"  put  in  Tommy.  "Mike 
owes  him  'leven  apples.  I  only  won 
eight." 

"  Well,  that  is  a  very  good  record, 
Thomas,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  and  I  will  see 
to  it  that  next  winter  you  have  a  brand- 
new  snow-shovel  with  which  to  enter  the 
contest." 

"  Mike  lets  us  chop  the  kindling-wood, 
too,"  said  Tommy,  suddenly  perceiving  a 
chance  to  put  in  a  good  word  for  the  genial 
Mike.  "  I  think  he's  the  nicest  hired  man 
as  ever  was." 

"  He'll  stop  anything  he's  doing  to  talk 
to  me,"  ventured  Mollie,  not  wishing  to  be 
backward  in  laying  wreaths  upon  the  brow 
of  their  friend. 

"  Yes,  I  have  noticed  that,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "  Indeed,  next  to  his  extreme  rest- 
fulness  there  is  no  quality  that  I  know  of 
in  Mike  that  shines  out  so  conspicuously 
as  his  intense  love  for  children.  He  will 
neglect  his  own  interests,  as  Mollie  has 
159 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

suggested,  to  talk  to  the  little  ones,  and  I 
rather  like  him  for  it.  No  boy  dares  go 
near  the  Jimpsonberry  man,  who  has 
exerted  himself  into  a  perpetual  state  of 
nervous  exhaustion." 

"  Well,  if  he  cleans  your  windows,  that 
is  something,"  observed  Mrs.  Pedagog, 
whose  experience  in  keeping  a  boarding- 
house  years  before  entitled  her  to  speak  as 
one  having  authority. 

"  Unless  his  system  is  the  same  in  that 
work  as  in  the  other  branches  committed 
to  his  care,"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"  It  isn't  quite,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  He 
really  does  exert  himself  in  window-clean 
ing.  I  have  frequently  seen  him  spend  a 
whole  day  on  one  window.  His  window- 
washing  system  is  a  very  ingenious  one, 
nevertheless." 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  with  a 
show  of  feeling. 

"  A  new  window-washing  system  ?" 
grinned  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  It  is  his  own 
invention.  He  washes  them  on  the  out 
side  in  summer  and  on  the  inside  in  win 
ter.  The  result  is  this  opalescent  glass 
which  you  see.  You  would  hardly  guess 
that  these  windows  are  of  French  plate. 
160' 


•'  '  SPKND    A    WHOLE    DAY    ON    ONK    WINDOW 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

Still,  we  don't  mind  so  much.  I  couldn't 
ask  him  to  wash  them  on  the  outside  in 
winter,  it  is  so  dreadfully  cold,  and  in  the 
summer,  of  course,  they  are  always  open, 
and  no  one,  unless  he  were  disagreeable 
enough  to  go  snooping  about  after  un 
pleasant  details,  would  notice  that  they 
are  not  immaculate." 

"  And  you  pay  this  man  forty  dollars 
for  this  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Brief. 

"  Oh,  for  this  and  other  things.  I  pay 
him  two  dollars  a  month  for  the  work  he 
does.  I  pay  him  ten  dollars  a  month  be 
cause  he's  good  to  the  children.  I  pay 
him  ten  dollars  more  for  his  civility,  which 
is  unvarying — he  always  puts  his  hat  on 
when  he  comes  into  the  house,  having 
noticed,  perhaps,  that  only  those  who  are 
my  social  equals  are  entitled  to  appear 
bareheaded  in  my  presence." 

"  And  the  other  eighteen  ?"  persisted 
the  lawyer,  by  nature  a  cross-examiner. 

"  Well,  I  don't  grudge  him  that  be 
cause —  "  a  sort  of  a  fond  light  lit  up  the 
Idiot's  eyes  as  he  gazed  down  upon  Mike, 
still  sitting  on  the  tennis-court — "  I  don't 
grudge  him  that  other  eighteen  dollars  be 
cause  it  costs  Mike  twenty  dollars  a  month 
to  live  j  and  he  uses  the  rest  of  it  to  put  his 
163 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

boy  through  college,  so  that  when  he  grows 
up  to  be  a  man  he  will  be  something  more 
than  a  hired  man." 

"  Ah !"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"  Yes/7  said  the  Idiot ;  "  I  found  that 
out  from  a  third  party  some  time  ago,  and 
I  thought  after  all  I'd  keep  him,  for  I 
know  nobody  else  would  have  him,  and 
then  what  would  become  of  the  boy  in 
college  ?" 


IX 

ON  SOCIAL  ACCOUNTS 

"  IT'S  rather  strange,  I  think/'  observed 
Mrs.  Idiot  one  evening,  as  she  and  the 
Idiot  sat  down  to  dine,  "  that  the  Dawk- 
inses  haven't  been  here  for  three  or  four 
months." 

"  I've  noticed  it  myself,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  We  used  to  see  'em  every  day  about. 
What's  up  ?  You  and  Polly  Dawkins  had 
a  fight  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot. 
"  The  last  time  we  met  she  was  very 
cordial,  and  asked  most  affectionately  after 
you  and  the  children.  I  presumed  that 
possibly  you  and  Dick  had  had  some  kind 
of  a  falling  out." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Dick  and  I  couldn't 
quarrel  any  more  than  you  and  Polly 
could.  Perhaps  as  we  grow  older  our 
ideals  differ.  Polly's  rather  anthropolog 
ical  in  her  talks,  isn't  she  ?" 
165 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"A  trifle/'  said  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  And 
musical  and  literary  and  scientific." 

"  While  you  ?"  queried  the  Idiot. 

"Well,  I'm  fond  of  golf  and— ah— 
well—" 

"  Golf  again/'  laughed  the  Idiot.  "  I 
guess  that's  it,  Bess.  When  a  woman 
wants  to  talk  about  the  origin  of  the 
species  and  has  to  hear  about  a  splendid 
putt,  and  her  observations  upon  the  so 
nata  are  invariably  interrupted  by  ani 
madversions  upon  the  morals  of  caddies, 
and  her  criticisms  of  Browning  end  in  a 
discussion  of  the  St.  Andrew's  Rules, 
she's  apt  to  shy  off  into  a  more  congenial 
atmosphere,  don't  you  think  ?" 

"  I  am  sure,"  retorted  Mrs.  Idiot,  "  that 
while  I  admit  I  am  more  interested  in  golf 
than  in  anything  else  outside  of  you  and 
the  children,  I  can  and  do  talk  sometimes 
of  other  things  than  caddies,  and  beautiful 
drives,  and  stymies.  You  are  very  much 
mistaken  if  you  think  otherwise." 

"  That  is  very  true,  my  dear,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "  And  nobody  knows  it  better  than 
I  do.  I've  heard  you  talk  charmingly 
about  lots  of  things  besides  stymies,  and 
foozles,  and  putts,  and  drives,  but  you 
don't  know  anything  about  the  men  of  the 
166 


WELL,  I'M   FOND   OF   GOLF  '  " 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

Stone  Age,  and  you  couldn't  tell  the  dif 
ference  between  a  sonata  and  a  fugue  any 
more  than  I.  Furthermore,  you  have  no 
patience  with  Browning,  so  that  when 
Polly  Dawkins  asks  if  you  like  Bordello, 
you  are  more  likely  than  not  to  say  that 
you  never  ate  any,  but  on  the  whole  for 
small  fish  prefer  whitebait." 

Mrs.  Idiot  laughed. 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  replied.  "  I'd  fall 
back  on  golf  if  Polly  mentioned  Bordello 
to  me.  You  may  remember  that  you  sent 
it  to  me  when  we  were  engaged,  and  I 
loved  you  so  much — then — that  I  read  it. 
If  I  hadn't  loved  you  I  couldn't  have  done 
it" 

"  Well,"  smiled  the  Idiot,  "  what  did 
you  think  of  it  ?" 

"  I  think  Browning  had  a  good  lie,  but 
he  foozled,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  with  her  eyes 
atwinkle,  and  the  Idiot  subsided  for  at 
least  ten  seconds. 

"  I  wish  you'*d  say  that  to  Polly  some 
time,"  he  observed.  "  It's  so  very  true, 
and  put  with  an  originality  which  cannot, 
but  appeal  to  the  most  hardened  of  literary 
women." 

"  I  will  if  I  ever  get  the  chance,"  said 
Mrs.  Idiot. 

169 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  Suppose  we  make  the  chance  ?"  sug 
gested  the  Idiot.  "  Let's  go  down  there 
and  call  to-night.  I'll  work  the  conversa 
tion  up  so  that  you  can  get  that  off  as  an 
impromptu." 

"  No/'  said  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  I  don't  think 
we'd  better.  In  the  first  place,  Mrs. 
Whalker  told  me  yesterday  that  Polly  ia 
to  read  a  paper  on  Balzac  before  the 
S.  F.  M.  E.  to-morrow  evening,  and  on 
Friday  morning  she  is  to  discuss  the  ( In 
fluence  of  Mozart  on  De  Koven'  before  the 
Musical  Mothers'  Meeting,  and  on  Satur 
day  afternoon  she  is  going  to  have  an  an 
thropological  tea  at  her  house,  which  she 
is  to  open  with  some  speculations  as  to 
whether  in  the  Glacial  Period  dudes  were 
addicted  to  the  use  of  cigarettes." 

"  Great  Scott !"  said  the  Idiot.  "  This 
is  her  busy  week." 

"  Tolerably  so,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  She 
has  probably  reserved  this  evening  to  read 
up  on  Balzac  for  to-morrow's  essay,  so  I 
think,  my  dear,  we'd  better  not  go." 

"  Right  as  usual,"  said  the  Idiot.  And 
then  he  added,  "  Poor  Dawkins,  who  is 
taking  care  of  him  now  ?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  "  that  pos 
sibly  Mrs.  Dawkins  has  sublet  the  con- 
170 


AN    ANTHROPOLOGICAL    TEA 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

tract  for  looking  after  her  husband  and 
children  to  the  United  States  Housekeep 
ing  Company  Limited." 

The  Idiot  gazed  blankly  at  his  wife,  and 
awaited  an  explanation. 

"  An  organization,  my  dear/'  she  con 
tinued,  "  formed  by  a  number  of  well- 
meaning  and  remorseful  widows  who, 
having  lost  their  husbands,  begin  to  appre 
ciate  their  virtues,  and  who,  finding  them 
selves  sympathetic  when  it  is  too  late,  are 
devoting  themselves  to  the  husbands  of 
others  who  are  neglected.  A  subscription 
of  five  hundred  dollars  will  secure  the 
supervision  of  all  the  domestic  arrange 
ments  of  a  home — marketing,  engagement 
and  discharge  of  domestics,  house-clean 
ing,  buttons  sewed  on,  darning  done,  care 
of  flowers,  wifely  duties  generally;  for 
one  thousand  dollars  they  will  bring  up 
the  children,  and  see  that  the  baby  is 
rocked  to  sleep  every  night,  and  suitably 
interested  in  elevating  narratives  and 
poems  like  Joseph's  coat  of  many  colors, 
and  Tom,  Tom  the  Piper's  Son.  This 
enables  an  advanced  woman  like  Mrs. 
Dawkins  to  devote  her  mornings  to  the 
encyclopedias,  her  afternoons  to  the  public 
libraries,  and  her  evenings  to  the  functions 
173 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

whereat  she  may  read  the  papers  which 
her  devotion  to  the  encyclopedias  and  the 
libraries  has  brought  forth." 

"  Excuse  me,  my  dear  Bess,"  said  the 
Idiot,  rising.  "  I  wish  to  telephone  Dr. 
Simmons." 

"  For  what — for  whom  ?"  demanded  the 
lady. 

"  You,  of  course,"  returned  the  Idiot. 
"  You  are  developing  alarming  symptoms. 
You  give  every  indication  of  a  bad  attack 
of  professional  humor.  Your  ( Interna 
tional  Widows  Company  for  the  Protec 
tion  and  Amelioration  of  Neglected  Hus 
bandry  '  proves  that !" 

Mrs.  Idiot  laughed  again. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  say  that  there  really  is 
such  an  institution !"  she  cried.  "  I  said 
that  I  supposed  there  was,  for  if  there 
isn't,  poor  Dick  Dawkins  isn't  taken  care 
of  at  all." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  it  all,  anyhow," 
said  the  Idiot,  seriously.  "  They're  both 
of  'em  good  friends  of  ours,  and  I  hate  to 
see  two  families  that  have  been  so  close 
drawing  apart." 

Just  then  Mollie  and  Tommy  came  in. 

"  Mamma,  Willie  Dawkins  says  he  can't 
come  to  our  party  because  his  ma  won't 
174 


'"THE  BABY  is  RQCKEP  TO  SLEEP  EYERY  NIGHT 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

let  him,"  said  Mollie.  "  She  says  we  don't 
never  go  down  there." 

"That's  it,"  said  the  Idiot.  "Mrs. 
Dawkins  has  got  so  many  irons  in  the  fire 
she's  hegun  to  keep  social  books.  I'll  bet 
you  she's  got  a  ledger  and  a  full  set  of 
double-entry  account-books  charging  up 
calls  payable  and  calls  receivable." 

"  I  don't  see  how  she  can  get  along  un 
less  she  has,"  replied  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  With 
all  her  clubs  and  church  societies  and 
varied  social  obligations  she  needs  an  ex 
pert  accountant  to  keep  track  of  them  all." 

"  I  suppose  a  promise  to  read  a  paper 
on  Balzac/'  put  in  the  Idiot,  "  is  some 
thing  like  a  three-months'  note.  It's  easy 
to  promise  to  pay,  with  three  months  in 
which  to  prepare,  but  you've  got  to  keep 
track  of  the  date  and  meet  the  obligation 
when  it  falls  due.  As  for  me,  I'd  rather 
meet  the  note." 

"  That  is  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot. 
"  If  a  woman  goes  into  society  properly 
she's  got  to  make  a  business  of  it.  For  in 
stance,  there  are  about  ten  dances  given  at 
the  club  here  every  year.  Polly  is  patron 
ess  for  every  one  of  'em.  There  are 
twenty-five  teas  during  the  spring  and 
summer  months.  Polly  assists  at  half  of 

M  m 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

them,  and  gives  a  fifth  of  them.  She's 
president  of  the  King's  Daughters,  corre 
sponding  secretary  of  the  Dorcas,  treas 
urer  of  the  Eed  Cross  Society,  and  good 
ness  knows  what  all !" 

"  I  can  quite  understand  why  she  needs 
to  keep  accounts — social  accounts,"  said 
the  Idiot.  "  But  it's  rather  queer,  don't 
you  think,  that  she  has  the  children  on  her 
books?  The  idea  of  saying  that  Jimmie 
and  Gladys  can't  come  to  Mollie's  party 
because  Mollie  hasn't  been  down  there — 
why,  it's  nonsense!" 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  "  it  is  merely 
logical.  Whatever  Polly  Dawkins  does 
she  tries  to  do  thoroughly.  I've  no  doubt 
she'll  do  Balzac  up  completely.  If  she 
keeps  social  books  showing  call  balances 
in  her  favor  or  against  herself  she  might 
as  well  go  the  whole  thing  and  write  the 
children  in — only  she's  made  a  mistake,  as 
far  as  we  are  concerned,  unless  she  means 
to  write  us  off  without  squaring  up." 

"  You  talk  like  a  financier,"  said  the 
Idiot,  admiringly.  "  What  do  you  know 
about  writing  off?" 

"  I  used  to  help  my  father  with  his 
accounts,  occasionally,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot. 
<(  Polly  Dawkins's  books  ought  to  show  a 
178 


POOR  DICK  DAWKINS  ISN'T  TAKEN  CARE  OF 
AT  ALL'" 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

balance  of  one  call  in  our  favor.  That's 
really  the  reason  I'm  not  willing  to  call 
there  to-night.  She's  so  queer  about  it 
all,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  owes  me 
a  call.  I'm  not  going  to  overwhelm  her 
with  an  added  obligation." 

"  Ho !"  smiled  the  Idiot.  "  You  keep 
books  yourself,  eh  ?" 

"  I  keep  score,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  I 
learned  that  playing  golf." 

"  It's  a  bad  thing  to  keep  score  in  golf," 
said  the  Idiot. 

"  So  they  say,  but  I  find  it  amusing," 
she  replied. 

"  And  how  many  calls  does  Mrs.  Wil- 
kins  owe  you?"  demanded  the  Idiot. 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  the  wife. 
"  And  I  don't  care.  When  I  want  to  see 
Mrs.  Wilkins  I  call  on  her  whether  she 
owes  me  a  call  or  not,  but  with  Polly 
Dawkins  it's  different.  She  began  the 
book-keeping,  and  as  long  as  she  likes  it  I 
must  try  to  live  up  to  her  ideas.  If  social 
intercourse  develops  into  a  business,  busi 
ness  requirements  must  be  observed." 

"  It's  a  good  idea  in  a  way,"  said  the 

Idiot,  reflectively.     "  But  if  you  make  a 

business  of  society,  why  don't  you  carry 

it  to  a  logical  conclusion  ?     Balance  your 

181 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

books,  if  you  mean  business,  every  month, 
and  send  your  debtors  a  statement  of  their 
account." 

"  Well,  I  will  if  you  wish  me  to,"  said 
Mrs.  Idiot.  "  Suppose  they  don't  pay?" 

"  Dun  'em,"  said  the  Idiot.  And  then 
the  matter  dropped. 

On  the  fifth  of  the  following  month 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Idiot  were  seated  comfort 
ably  in  their  library.  The  children  had 
gone  to  bed,  and  they  were  enjoying  the 
bliss  of  a  quiet  evening  at  home,  when  the 
door-bell  rang,  and  in  a  moment  or  two 
the  maid  ushered  in  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard 
Dawkins,  preceded,  of  course,  by  their 
cards.  The  young  householders  were  de 
lighted,  and  Polly  Dawkins  was  never 
more  charming.  She  looked  well,  and  she 
talked  well,  and  there  was  not  a  symptom 
of  any  diminution  of  the  old-time  friend 
ship  perceptible — only  she  did  appear  to 
be  tired  and  care-worn. 

The  evening  wore  away  pleasantly.  The 
chat  reverted  to  old  times,  and  by  degrees 
Mrs.  Dawkins  seemed  to  grow  less  tired. 

About  ten  o'clock  the  Idiot  invited  his 
neighbor  to  adjourn  to  the  smoking-room, 
where  they  each  lit  a  cigar  and  indulged 
in  a  companionable  glass. 
182 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  Idiot/'  said  Dawkins,  when  his  wife 
called  out  to  him  that  it  was  time  to  go 
home,  "  your  wife  is  a  wonder.  I've  been 
trying  for  three  months  to  make  Polly 
come  up  here  and  she  wouldn't.  Keeps 
books,  you  know — now.  Has  to — so  much 
to  do.  Thought  you  owed  us  a  call,  but  re 
ceived  your  bill  Wednesday — looked  it  up 
— questioned  servants — found  you  were 
right." 

"  Bill,"  cried  the  Idiot.     "  What  bill  ?" 

"  Why,  the  one  Mrs.  Idiot  sent — this," 
said  Dawkins,  taking  a  piece  of  paper  out 
of  his  pocket.  "  Confoundedly  good 
joke." 

The  Idiot  took  up  the  piece  of  paper. 
It  was  type-written — on  Tommy's  ma 
chine — and  read  as  follows: 


November  1,  1898 
MR.  AND  MRS.  RICHARD  DAWKINS 
To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Idiot  Dr. 


September  20 


Evening  call 

Account  overdue.    Please 
remit. 


183 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  Great  Scott !"  laughed  the  Idiot. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  Idiot  after  the 
Dawkinses  had  gone,  "  that  bill  of  yours 
was  a  great  idea." 

"  It  wasn't  my  idea  at  all — it  was 
yours,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  laughing.  "  You 
said  we  ought  to  be  business-like  to  the 
last  and  send  out  a  statement  on  the  first 
of  the  month.  I  sent  it.  And  they  paid 
up." 

"  Richard,"  said  Mrs.  Dawkins,  as  they 
drove  home,  "  did  you  get  a  receipt  ?" 


AS    TO    SA^TA    GLAUS 

"  I  AM  very  glad  I  didn't  take  Tommy 
and  Mollie  to  church  with  me  this  morn 
ing,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  on  her  return  from 
service.  "  It  would  have  broken  their 
hearts  to  have  heard  the  sermon.  I  don't 
know  what  gets  into  Dr.  Preachly  some 
times.  He  gave  us  a  blast  about  Santa 
Glaus." 

"  A  blast  about  Santa  Clans,  eh !"  said 
the  Idiot.  "  And  how  did  he  blast  the 
good  old  saint  ?" 

"  He  said  he  was  a  lie,"  rejoined  Mrs. 
Idiot,  indignantly,  "  and  that  it  was  the 
duty  of  every  Christian  in  the  land  to  see 
that  the  lie  was  exposed." 

"  Great  heavens !"  cried  the  Idiot,  in  as 
tonishment.  "  Doesn't  Dr.  Preachly  be 
lieve  in  Santa  Claus  ?  Poor  old  Preach 
ly  !  How  much  he  has  lost !  Did  he  say 
185 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

anything  about  Hop  o?  My  Thumb  and 
Cinderella?'7 

"  No,  of  course  not.  Why  should  he  ?" 
returned  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  Oh,  because ;  I  suppose  that  a  man 
who  doesn't  believe  in  Santa  Glaus  is  a 
skeptic  on  the  subject  of  Hop  o'  My 
Thumb,  and  Rumpelstiltzken,  and  Cin 
derella,  and  Jack  the  Giant-Killer,  and 
all  the  rest  of  that  noble  army  of  child 
hood  friends/'  explained  the  Idiot. 

"  He  didn't  mention  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Idiot.  "  He- 

"  He's  going  to  preach  a  series  of  ser 
mons  on  lies,  I  presume,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  He's  tackled  Santa  Glaus  first,  as  being 
the  most  seasonable  of  the  lot,  eh  ?  Jack 
the  Giant-Killer  ought  to  be  a  good  sub 
ject  for  a  ministerial  attack." 

"  Well,  he  pulled  poor  old  Santa  Glaus 
to  pieces,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Why  didn't  you  bring  me  a  piece  of 
him  as  a  souvenir  ?"  demanded  the  Idiot. 
"  Just  a  lock  of  his  hair  for  my  collection 
of  curios?  What  was  done  with  the  re 
mains  ?" 

Mrs.  Idiot  laughed  as  she  pulled  over 
her  gloves  and  smoothed  them  upon  her 
lap. 

186 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  There  weren't  any  remains/'  she  an 
swered.  "  When  Dr.  Preachly  got 
through  with  him  there  wasn't  a  vestige 
of  the  old  chap  left.  To  begin  with,  he 
was  a  lie,  the  doctor  said.  Then  he  went 
on  and  showed  that  he  was  a  wickedly 
partial  old  fellow — a  very  snob,  he  called 
him — because  he  gives  fine  things  to  the 
children  of  the  rich  and  little  or  nothing 
to  the  children  of  the  poor.  He  filled  the 
little  folk  with  hope  and  brought  them  dis 
appointment,  and  so  on.  It  was  a  pow 
erful  sermon,  although  I  wanted  to  weep 
over  it." 

"  Go  ahead  and  weep,"  said  the  Idiot ; 
"  it's  the  appropriate  thing  to  do.  I  don't 
wonder  you  wanted  to  cry;  you've  always 
liked  Dr.  Preachly." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  And  you  hate  to  see  him  make  a — ah 
— a — well,  you  know — of  himself  in  the 
pulpit;  and  I  quite  agree  with  you.  I 
rather  like  Preachly  myself.  It  is  too  bad 
to  see  a  well-meaning  man  like  that  batting 
his  brains  out  against  the  rock  of  Gibral 
tar,  whether  suicide  is  sin  or  not.  What 
has  put  him  in  this  despondent  mood  ?  Do 
you  suppose  he  has  heard  ?" 

"  Heard  what  ?"  demanded  Mrs.  Idiot. 
187 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  About  the  slippers,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"  What  slippers  2"  asked  his  wife. 

"  Oh,  the  same  old  slippers,"  said  the 
Idiot.  (  You  know  the  ones  I  mean — the 
ones  he's  going  to  get  from  Santa  Glaus. 
Really,  I'm  not  surprised,  after  all.  If 
I  were  a  minister,  and  realized  that  truck- 
loads  of  embroidered  slippers  of  every  size 
and  color,  covered  with  stags  of  red  wor 
sted  jumping  over  rivulets  of  yellow  floss, 
with  split  agates  for  eyes  set  in  over  the 
toe,  were  to  be  dumped  in  my  front  yard 
every  Christmas  Eve  by  that  old  repro 
bate,  Santa  Claus,!  think  I,  too,  would  set 
him  down  as  a  fraud,  or  an  overworked 
cobbler,  anyhow." 

"  That's  exaggerated — a  comic  -  paper 
idea,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  I  don't  believe 
the  average  clergyman  gets  so  many  slip 
pers.  Dr.  Preachly  only  got  eight  pairs 
last  Christmas." 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  cried  the  Idiot.  "  Mercy, 
what  a  small  income  of  slippers!  Dear 
me !  how  can  he  live  with  only  eight 
pairs  of  slippers  ?  But,  after  all,  slippers 
are  an  appropriate  gift  for  a  clergyman/' 
he  added,  "  and  Santa  Claus  should  be 
credited  with  that  fact.  Slippers  have 
soles,  and  the  more  slippers  he  gets  the 
188 


'  PR.  PREACHLY   ONLY   (JOT   EIGHT   PAIRS    LAST   XMAS  '  " 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

easier  it  is  to  save  their  soles,  and  there- 
fore- 

"  Keally,  my  dear,  you  are  flippant," 
said  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  Not  at  all,"  rejoined  the  Idiot.  "  I 
am  merely  trying  to  sit  on  two  stools  at 
once — to  retain  my  respect  for  Dr.  Preach- 
ly  without  giving  up  my  everlasting  regard 
for  Santa  Claus.  If  I  can't  do  both  I  am 
very  much  afraid  it  will  be  Dr.  Preacnly, 
and  not  Santa  Claus,  who  will  go  to  the 
wall  in  this  establishment,  and  that  would 
be  sad.  I  can't  say  I  think  much  of  the 
doctor's  logic.  Do  you  ?" 

"  I  didn't  notice  his  logic,"  Mrs.  Idiot 
replied. 

"  Very  likely,"  said  the  Idiot ;  "  from 
what  you  tell  me  of  his  discourse  I  im 
agine  he  must  have  left  it  at  home,  which 
is  a  bad  thing  to  do  in  an  argument.  To 
begin,  he  called  Santa  a  lie,  did  he  ?" 

"  Yes ;  said  he  didn't  exist  at  all." 

"  Good !  Then  how  could  he  have  been 
a  snob  3" 

"  Why,  while  of  course  I  have  no  sym 
pathy  with  his  conclusions,  Dr.  Preachly 
handled  that  point  pretty  well.  It  cer 
tainly  is  true  that  in  the  homes  of  the  rich 
there  is  a  lavishness  of  gifts  that  you  don't 
191 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

find  in  the  homes  of  the  poor,  and  there 
fore  Santa  Claus  treats  the  rich  better  than 
he  does  the  poor.  We  all  know  that." 

"  Hum !"  said  the  Idiot.  "  And  so  it 
is  Santa  Claus  who  is  the  snob,  eh,  and 
not  Fortune?" 

"  Well,  Dr.  Preachly  did  not  touch  upon 
that.  All  he  said  was  that  Santa  Claus 
was  a  snob  for  favoring  '  high  society  '  and 
in  many  cases  absolutely  ignoring  the  sub 
merged." 

"  But  I  don't  see  how,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"  Suppose  he  brings  a  diamond  neck 
lace  to  the  daughter  of  a  Croesus  ?" 

"  Precisely,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"  And  a  china  doll  to  the  daughter  of  a 
carpenter  ?"  said  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  That's  tact,  not  snobbishness,"  said 
the  Idiot.  "  What  would  the  daughter  of 
a  carpenter  do  with  a  diamond  necklace  ? 
The  china  doll  is  not  only  more  appropri 
ate,  but  a  better  plaything." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  he  gives  richly  to  those 
that  have,  and  sparsely,  if  at  all,  to  those 
that  haven't,  Dr.  Preachly  said,"  said 
Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  There  is  scriptural  authority  for  that," 
observed  the  Idiot.  "  I  wonder  if  Dr. 
Preachly  reads  his  Bible!  Perhaps  I'd 
192 


M<A   CHINA    DOLL    TO    THE    DAUGHTER   OF   A 

CARPENTER '  " 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

better  send  him  one  for  Christmas  instead 
of  a  pair  of  galoshes.  He'll  find  in  the 
Bible  that  *  to  him  that  hath  shall  be 
given/  and  so  forth.  But  to  return  to 
the  logic — " 

"  I  told  you  I  didn't  notice  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  Nor  did  Dr.  Preachly,  my  dear ;  pass 
ed  it  by  as  if  it  were  a  poor  relation,  ap 
parently.  But  this  is  true,  a  lie  is  an  un 
truth.  Truth  alone  lives,  therefore  an 
untruth  does  not  live.  Santa  Glaus  is  a 
lie  and  does  not  live,  and  is  a  snob,  ac 
cording  to  our  reverend  logician.  Now, 
how  can  one  who  does  not  live  be  a  snob 
or  anything  else  ?  Truly,  I  wish  Dr. 
Preachly  would  be  more  careful  in  his 
statements.  As  a  pew  -  holder  in  his 
church  I  do  not  like  to  hear  him  denounce 
something  that  does  not  exist  as  having 
unworthy  qualities.  It's  like  shaking  a 
sword  at  nothing  and  patting  yourself  on 
the  back  afterwards  for  your  courage ; 
still  more  in  this  instance  is  it  like  batting 
your  poor  mortal  head  against  the  hard 
surface  of  an  everlasting  rock,  and  our 
clergy  should  be  in  better  business. 

"  Let  'em  fight  the  harmful  lies — the 
lies  of  false  social  ideas  as  propagated  by 
195 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

distinctions  of  pew-holding,  for  instance. 
The  man  who  sits  in  the  front  of  the 
church  is  no  better  than  the  man  who  sits 
at  the  back,  and  is  frequently  his  inferior ; 
but  has  he  more  or  has  he  less  influence  ? 
The  man  who  hands  in  his  check  for  ten 
thousand  dollars,  having  that  and  more  to 
spare,  is  not  more  the  friend  of  religion 
and  Christianity  than  the  poor  beggar 
who  stumbles  in  and  puts  his  penny  in 
the  plate,  thus  diminishing  by  one-fifth  his 
capital.  Suppose  Santa  Claus  is  in  a  ma 
terial  sense  a  fancy  or  a  lie ;  Heaven  help 
Dr.  Preachly  if  he  can't  see  the  beauty  and 
the  ethical  value  of  the  deception.  Is  he 
not  the  embodiment  of  the  golden  rule, 
and  is  he  not,  after  all — God  bless  him  and 
them! — something  beautiful  in  the  eyes 
of  the  children  2" 

"  I'm  flippant,  and  I  know  it,  but  there 
are  some  things  I  cling  to,"  he  added, 
after  a  pause.  "  Santa  Claus  is  one  of 
them,  and  Dr.  Preachly  can  preach 
through  all  eternity,  and,  with  all  due  re 
spect  to  him,  he  can't  remove  from  my 
mind  the  beauty  of  an  idea  that  was  plant 
ed  there  by  two  people  who  were  practical 
enough,  my  father  and  my  mother.  I've 
inherited  Santa  Claus,  and  I'm  not  going 
196 


"'  HULLO,  SONNY  !      HAD    A    GOOD   TIME?'" 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

to  give  him  up,  and  no  preacher  in  our 
church  or  in  the  church  of  others  can  take 
him  away  from  me  by  one  sermon,  or  by 
an  infinite  number  of  sermons,  however 
sincere  they  may  be.  Is  dinner  ready  ?" 

Dinner  was  ready.  It  was  eaten  re 
flectively,  and  after  it  the  children  went 
to  Sunday  -  school.  From  this  Tommy 
returned  with  a  swollen  eye-,  which  later 
became  dark. 

"  Hullo,  pop !"  he  said,  addressing  the 
Idiot  as  he  entered  the  house. 

"  Hullo,  sonny !"  replied  the  Idiot,  ob 
serving  the  swollen  eye.  "  Had  a  good 
time  ?" 

"  Yep,"  said  the  boy ;  "  pretty  good." 

"  Been  fighting  V  suggested  the  Idiot. 

"  Not  so  very  much,"  said  the  boy ; 
"  only  a  little."  And  he  began  to  sing  a 
popular  air,  as  if  he  didn't  care  much 
about  life  in  general,  and  didn't  mind  an 
aching  eye,  which  was  rapidly,  by  its  in 
flammation,  giving  away  the  fact  that  he 
had  met  with  trouble. 

"  What  did  you  learn  at  Sunday- 
school  ?"  asked  the  Idiot. 

"  More  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive," 
said  Tommy. 

"  Good !"  said  the  Idiot.  "  I  hope  you 
199 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

will  remember  that,  sonny.  There  is  no 
satisfaction  in  all  the  world  like  that  of 
giving  if  you  can  afford  it." 

"  I  think  tho,  too/'  said  Mollie,  sitting 
down  on  her  father's  lap  with  the  content 
ed  sigh  of  a  little  girl  who  has  discovered 
that  life  is  not  all  an  illusion.  "  I  gave 
my  dollie  away  to-day,  papa,"  she  added. 
"  She  wath  only  thawdust,  and  Pollie  Har 
rington  hath  her  now.  She  was  a  drefful 
care,  and  I'm  glad  to  be  ridden  of  her." 

But  the  Idiot's  mind  was  not  on  dolls, 
and  he  showed  it.  His  boy's  eye  proved 
a  greater  care. 

lt  Come  here,  my  boy,"  he  said. 

The  boy  approached  inquiringly. 

"  How  did  this  happen  ?"  the  Idiot 
asked.  "  Your  eye  is  swollen." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  cried  Tommy,  ex 
ultantly.  "  Jimmie  Roberts  said  there 
wasn't  no  Santy  Glaus." 

"Well?" 

"  I  said  there  was,  an'  then  I  gave  him 
one  on  the  end  of  his  nose." 

Here  the  boy  struggled  away  from  his 
father,  as  if  he  had  done  something  he 
was  willing  to  stand  by. 

"  Let   me   understand   this,"    said   the 
Idiot.     "  Jimmie  said— 
200 


GAVE   MY    DOLLY   AWAY   TO-DAY 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  There  wasn't  any  Santy  Glaus/'  in 
terrupted  Tommy. 

"  Then  what  did  you  say  ?"  asked  the 
Idiot. 

"  I  told  him  he  didn't  know  what  he 
was  talking  about,"  said  Tommy. 

"  Why  did  you  say  that  ?" 

<e  Because  he  was  wrong,  papa,"  said 
Tommy.  "  I've  seen  Santy  Glaus ;  I  saw 
him  last  year." 

"  Ah !  You  did,  eh  ?  I  was  not  aware 
of  that  fact." 

Tommy  began  to  laugh. 

"  You  can't  fool  me,  daddy,"  he  said, 
climbing  onto  his  father's  knee.  "  Of 
course  I've  seen  him,  and  he's  the  bulliest 
feller  in  all  the  world.  You're  him!" 

And  a  hug  followed. 

Later  on  Mrs.  Idiot  and  the  Idiot  sat 
together.  The  latter  was  deep  in  thought. 

"  Children  have  queer  notions,"  said  he, 
after  a  while. 

"  They  are  generally  pretty  right, 
though,"  observed  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  You  are 
a  pretty  good  Santa  Glaus,  after  all,"  she 
added. 

"  Pollie,"  said  the  Idiot,  rising,  "  I  be 
lieve  in  Santa  Glaus  because  he  represents 
the  spirit  of  the  hour,  and  whoever  tries  to 
203 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

turn  him  down  tries  to  turn  down  that 
spirit — the  most  blessed  thing  we  have. 
Let's  keep  the  children  believing  in  Santa 
Clans,  eh  ?" 

"  I  agree,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  For  the 
secret  is  ont.  You  are  Santa  Glaus  to 
them." 

"  Heaven  grant  I  may  always  be  as 
much,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  For  if  a  father 
is  Santa  Glaus,  and  a  boy  or  a  girl  believes 
in  Santa  Glaus  as  a  friend,  as  a  compan 
ion,  as  something  that  brings  them  only 
sincerity  and  love  and  sympathy,  then  may 
we  feel  that  Tiny  Tim's  prayer  has  been 
answered,  and  that  God  has  blessed  us  all." 


XI 

AS  TO  NEW-YEAR'S  DAY 

IT  was  New- Year's  eve,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Idiot  with  their  old  friends  were 
watching  the  old  year  die.  The  old  year 
had  been  a  fairly  successful  one  for  them 
all,  and  they  were  properly  mournful  over 
its  prospective  demise,  but  the  promise  of 
the  new  was  sufficiently  bright  to  mitigate 
their  sorrow. 

"  What  a  sandwich  life  is,  after  all !" 
ejaculated  the  Idiot. 

Mr.  Pedagog  started  nervously.  The 
remark  was  so  idiotic  that  even  its  source 
seemed  to  make  it  inexcusable. 

"  I  don't  quite  catch  your  drift,"  said 
he. 

"  As  the  man  said  when  an  avalanche 
of  snow  fell  off  his  neighbor's  roof  and 
missed  him  by  an  inch,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  Why,  just  think  a  moment,  Doctor,  and 
my  drift  will  overwhelm  you.  Look  about 
205 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

you  and  consider  what  we  have  ourselves 
demonstrated  to-night.  If  that  does  not 
prove  life  a  series  of  emotional  sand 
wiches,  then  I  don't  know  what  a  sandwich 
is.  Twenty  minutes  ago  we  were  all  glad 
ness  over  the  prosperity  of  the  year  gone 
by.  Five  minutes  ago  we  were  all  on  the 
verge  of  tears  because  the  good  old  year  is 
going  the  way  of  all  years.  An  hour 
from  now  we  will  be  joyously  acclaiming 
the  new.  Two  thick  slices  of  joy  with  a 
thin  slice  of  grief  between." 

"  Ah !"  said  Mr.  Pedagog.  "  I  see. 
There  is  something  in  the  analogy,  after 
all.  The  bread  of  joy  and  the  ham  of 
sorrow,  as  you  might  put  it,  do  make  up 
the  sum  of  human  existence;  but  in  some 
cases,  my  lad,  I  am  afraid  you  will  find 
there  is  only  one  slice  of  bread  to  two  of 
ham." 

"No  doubt,"  replied  the  Idiot,  "but 
that  does  not  affect  my  proposition  that 
life  is  a  sandwich.  If  one  slice  of  ham 
between  two  slices  of  bread  is  a  ham  sand 
wich,  why  is  not  one  slice  of  bread  be 
tween  two  slices  of  ham  a  bread  sandwich  ? 
What  is  a  sandwich,  anyhow?  The  dic 
tionary  says  that  a  sandwich  is  something 
placed  between  two  other  things ;  hence, 
206 


"'l    DON'T    QUITE   CATCH   TOUR   DRIFT 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

all  things  are  sandwiches,  because  there 
is  nothing  in  the  world,  the  world  being 
round,  that  is  not  between  two  other 
things.  Therefore,  all  things  being  sand 
wiches,  life  is  a  sandwich,  Q.  E.  D." 

"  Is  life  a  thing  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Ped- 
agog. 

"  Certainly,'7  said  the  Idiot.  "  And  a 
mighty  good  thing,  too.  If  you  don't  be 
lieve  it  look  the  word  thing  up  in  the  dic 
tionary.  All  things  are  things." 

"  But,"  continued  the  Schoolmaster, 
his  old  spirit  of  antagonism  rising  up  in 
his  breast,  "  granted  that  life  is  a  thing, 
what  is  it  between  so  that  it  becomes  a 
sandwich  ?" 

"  The  past  and  the  future,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "  It  is  a  slice  of  the  immediate  be 
tween  a  slice  of  past  and  one  of  future." 

Mr.  Pedagog  laughed. 

"  You  are  still  the  same  old  Idiot,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  Gibraltar  and 
I  and  Truth  are  the  three  unchangeable 
things  in  this  life,  and  that's  why  I  am 
so  happy.  I'm  in  such  good  company. 
Gibraltar  and  Truth  are  good  enough  com 
panions  for  anybody." 

Meanwhile  Mollie  and  Tommy,  who 
o  209 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

had  been  allowed  to  sit  up  upon  this  rare 
occasion,  stirred  uneasily. 

"  Ith  I  a  thandwich,  popper  ?"  said  the 
little  girl,  sleepily,  raising  her  head  from 
her  father's  shoulder  and  gazing  into  his 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  you  are,"  said  her  father, 
giving  her  an  affectionate  squeeze.  "  A 
sugar  sandwich,  Mollie.  You're  really 
good  enough  to  eat." 

"  Well,  I'd  rather  be  a  pie,"  put  in  Tom 
my  ;  "  an  apple  pie." 

"  Very  well,  my  son,"  returned  the 
Idiot.  "  Have  your  own  way.  Hence 
forth  be  a  pie  if  you  prefer — an  apple 
pie.  But  may  I  ask  why  you  express  this 
preference  ?" 

"  Oh,  because,"  said  Tommy,  "  if  I'm 
to  be  an  apple  pie  somebody's  got  to  fill 
me  chock-full  of  apple  sauce." 

"  The  son  of  his  father,"  observed  Mr. 
Whitechoker. 

"  I  think  it  is  a  pity,"  Mrs.  Pedagog  put 
in  at  this  point,  "  that  some  of  the  good 
old  customs  of  the  New  Year  have  gone 
out." 

"  As  to  which,  Mrs.  Pedagog  ?"  asked 
the  Idiot. 

(t  Well,  New- Year's  calling  particular- 
210 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

ly,"  explained  the  lady.  "  It  is  no  longer 
the  thing  for  people  to  make  New- Year's 
calls,  and  I  must  confess  I  regret  it.  It 
used  to  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  in  the 
old  days  to  receive  the  gentlemen — my  old 
friends,  and  relatives,  and  boarders." 

"  Why  distinguish  between  your  old 
friends  and  your  boarders,  Mrs.  Peda- 
gog  ?"  interrupted  the  Idiot.  "  They  are 
synonymous  terms." 

"  "  They  are  now,"  said  the  good  lady, 
"  but — ah — they  weren't  always.  I  used 
sometimes  to  think  you,  for  instance, 
didn't  like  me  as  much  as  you  might." 

"  I  didn't  dare,"  explained  the  Idiot. 
"  If  I'd  liked  you  as  much  as  I  might  I'd 
have  told  you  so,  and  then  Mr.  Pedagog 
would  have  got  jealous  and  there'd  have 
been  a  horrid  affair." 

The  lady  smiled  graciously,  and  Mr. 
Pedagog  threw  a  small  paper  pellet  at  the 
Idiot. 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  holding 
off,  Idiot,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
where  I'd  have  been  to-day  if  you'd  got  in 
ahead  of  me.  Mrs.  Pedagog  has  always 
had  a  soft  spot  in  her  heart  for  you." 

"  I've  got  the  other  spot,"  said  the  Idiot, 
"  and  a  pair  of  aces  are  hard  to  beat  in 
211 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

pairs ;  but  I  think  I  voice  Mrs.  Pedagog' s 
sentiments  in  the  matter,  Mr.  Pedagog, 
when  I  say  that  she  and  I  would  always 
have  been  glad  to  see  you  every  other  New- 
Year's  day  if  I  had  been  the  fortunate 
winner  of  her  hand." 

"  And  Mr.  Pedagog  and  I  would  have 
been  glad  to  see  you  and  Mrs.  Pedagog  in 
the  sandwich  years/'  said  Mrs.  Idiot  to 
her  husband;  and  then,  turning  to  the 
Schoolmaster,  added,  "  Wouldn't  we,  Mr. 
Pedagog  ?" 

"  No,  madame,"  returned  Mr.  Pedagog, 
courteously.  "  You  might  have  been,  but 
I  would  not.  If  I  had  married  you  I 
could  never  have  seen  any  one  else  with 
pleasure.  I  should  have  kept  my  eyes 
solely  for  you." 

"  John !"  cried  Mrs.  Pedagog,  arching 
her  eyebrows. 

"  Pleasantry,  my  dear — mere  pleasant 
ry,"  returned  the  Schoolmaster,  tapping 
his  fingers  together  and  smiling  sweetly 
upon  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"You  didn't  finish,  Mrs.  Pedagog," 
said  the  Idiot.  "  You  were  telling  us 
how  you  used  to  enjoy  New- Year's  calling 
before  it  went  out." 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Pedagog.  "It 
212 


"'l   FELT  AS   IF    I    HAD    SWALLOWED    AN    OVERSHOE'" 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

was  charming.  I  used  positively  to  look 
forward  to  its  coming  with  delight.  We 
women,  Mr.  Idiot,  found  the  old  custom 
very  delightful." 

"  But  the  men,  Mrs.  Pedagog,"  said  the 
Idiot,  "  did  you  ever  think  of  them  ?" 

"  What  else  did  we  think  of  ?  What  else 
is  there  for  a  woman  to  think  about  ?"  re- 
jplied  Mrs.  Pedagog. 

"  Jane !"  cried  Mr.  Pedagog. 
"  Pleasantry,  my  dear — mere  pleasant 
ry"    returned    Mrs.    Pedagog,    frigidly. 
And  Mr.  Pedagog  lit  a  cigar.     It  is  not 
always  pleasant  to  be  quoted. 

"  Still,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  you  thought 
of  men  only  as  creatures  of  the  mo 
ment — 

"  Entirely,"  said  Mrs.  Pedagog. 
"  And  not  as  creatures  of  the  week  fol 
lowing,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Pedagog. 

"  Much — from  the  man's  stand-point," 
returned  the  Idiot.  "  His  digestion  ^  was 
butchered  to  make  a  woman's  holiday. 
Take  myself  as  an  example.  I  used  to 
make  New  -  Year's  calls;  and  to  get 
through  with  my  list  by  midnight,  I  had 
to  start  in  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning." 
215 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  Nine  o'clock  is  not  so  early,"  said  Mr. 
Whitechoker. 

"  It's  early  for  cake  and  pickled  oys 
ters/'  said  the  Idiot.  "  And  for  chicken 
salad  and  wedding-cake,  and  for  lemonade 
and  punch,  and  for  lobster  and  egg-nog, 
and  for  ice-cream  and  pate-de-foie-gras" 

"  H'm !"  said  Mr.  Pedagog,  reflectively. 
"  That's  true." 

"  Quite  so,"  observed  Mr.  Whitechoker, 
brushing  off  his  vest,  upon  which  the  ashes 
of  his  cigar  had  rested.  "  Especially  for 
the  punch." 

"  There  was  no  punch  in  my  house," 
said  Mrs.  Pedagog.  "  Indeed,  I  always 
served  a  very  simple  luncheon.  We  did 
have  chicken  salad,  of  course,  but  the 
chicken  was  good  and  the  salad  was 
crisp — ?: 

"  I'd  swear  to  it,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"  And  we  had  egg-nog,  but  there  was 
more  egg  than  nog  in  it — 

"  Again  I'd  swear  to  it,"  said  the  Idiot, 
smacking  his  lips. 

"  And  as  for  the  lobsters,  nobody  ever 
complained— 

"  He'd  have  been  a  lobster  himself  who 
would,"  said  the  Idiot.     "  But  that  does 
not  prove  that  no  one  ever  suffered." 
216 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  And  as  for  the  pickled  oysters,  no  one 
ever  suffered  from  them  that  I  knew  of," 
continued  the  good  lady.  "  They  are 
harmless  eaten  in  moderation." 

"  Exactly  right,"  cried  the  Idiot.  "  No 
gentleman  would  ever  complain  of  pic 
kled  oysters,  even  if  they  were  made  of 
inferior  rubber,  eaten  in  moderation.  Yet 
I  recall  in  my  own  experience  a  pickled 
oyster  of  most  impressive  quality.  He 
was  not  a  pickled  oyster  of  the  moment. 
He  was  the  Admiral  Dewey  of  pickled 
oysters.  In  appearance  he  resembled  ev 
ery  other  pickled  oyster  I  ever  met,  but — 
well,  he  kept  me  in  a  state  of  worry  for  a 
month.  Just  eating  him  alone  was  eating 
pickled  oysters  in  immoderation.  I  felt 
as  if  I  had  swallowed  an  overshoe.  He 
was  a  charming  pickled  oyster,  Mrs. 
Pedagog,  and  he  was  devoted  to  me,  but 
he  involved  me  in  complications  alongside 
of  which  the  Philippine  question  is  child's 
play.  If  a  New- Year's  caller  could  have 
confined  his  attentions  to  the  ladies  he 
met  no  harm  would  have  come  to  him,  but 
he  couldn't,  you  know.  The  day  was  one 
continuous  round  of  effort  and  indigest- 
ibles.  What  a  man  got  at  your  house  and 
had  to  eat  merely  to  show  his  appreciation 
217 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

of  your  hospitality  was  all  right  and  whole 
some.  Your  lobster  and  egg-nog  could  do 
him  no  harm,  but  he  couldn't  stop  with 
yours;  he  had  to  continue,  and  consume 
lobsters  and  egg-nog  everywhere  else  and 
all  day  long.  The  day  resolved  itself  into 
a  magnificent  gorge  alongside  of  which 
that  of  Niagara  seems  like  a  wagon-rut. 
It  finally  came  down  to  the  point  where 
either  man  or  the  custom  had  to  die,  and 
man  being  selfish,  the  custom  went.  Did 
you  ever  consider  exactly  how  much  in 
digestible  food  an  amiable,  well-meaning 
person  had  to  consume  in  a  round  of,  say, 
three  dozen  calls,  Mrs.  Pedagog  ?" 

Mr.  Brief  nodded  his  approval.  "  Now 
you've  struck  it,"  he  said.  "  I've  been 
there,  Idiot." 

"  I  must  confess,"  said  Mrs.  Pedagog, 
"  that  I  never  looked  into  that  question." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  the  Idiot  re 
sumed.  "  The  last  time  I  made  New- 
Year's  calls  I  figured  it  out  for  the  doctor 
the  next  morning,  and  as  I  recall  the 
statistics,  in  the  course  of  that  day  I  ate 
one  hundred  and  twenty-nine  pickled  oys 
ters,  thirteen  plates  of  chicken  salad,  seven 
plates  of  lobster  salad,  five  plates  of 
mulled  sardines,  twenty-three  plates  of 
218 


I    FOUND    EIGHT    SANDWICHES    AND  A    PINT   OF 
SALTED    ALMONDS  *  " 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

ice-cream,  four  hundred  and  sixty-three 
macaroons,  eighty-seven  sandwiches  rang 
ing  from  lettuce  and  ham  to  chicken  and 
potted  goose-liver,  enough  angel-cake  to 
feed  all  the  angels  there  are  and  two  more, 
sixteen  Welsh  rarebits  that  were  being 
made  just  as  I  happened  in,  and  crystal 
lized  ginger  and  salted  almonds  and  mar- 
rons  to  the  extent  of  about  eighteen 
pounds.77 

"  Mercy !"  cried  Mrs.  Pedagog. 

"  Say,  pa,  where  was  I  then  ?"  asked 
Tommy,  his  eyes  glittering  with  delight. 

"  You  were  eating  green  cheese  on  the 
moon,  Tommy,77  said  the  Idiot. 

"  Wisht  I7d  been  with  you,77  said  Tom 
my.  "  Must  o7  been  better  than  bein7  a 
pie.77 

"  And  all  of  these  things,77  continued 
the  Idiot,  with  a  wink  at  his  son,  "  I 
washed  down  with  six  gallons  of  lemonade, 
nineteen  cups  of  coffee,  eighteen  cups  of 
tea,  and  a  taste  of  claret  punch.77 

"  And  how  about  the  egg-nog  ?77  asked 
the  Bibliomaniac,  slyly. 

"  I  judge  there  were  about  six  crates 
of  eggs  in  it,77  said  the  Idiot.  "  I  never 
had  the  nerve  to  estmate  the  nog  -  end 
of  it.77 

221 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  What  did  the  doctor  say  when  you 
told  him  all  that  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Pedagog. 

The  Idiot  chuckled.  "What  did  he 
say  ?"  he  cried.  "  Why,  I  should  think 
you  could  guess.  He  blamed  it  all  on  the 
Welsh  rarebits,  but  he  thought  he  could 
get  me  into  shape  again  in  time  for  the 
next  New  Year.  I've  never  been  the 
same  man  since." 

"  Well,  the  way  I  look  at  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Pedagog,  "  is  that  it  is  a  great  pity  that 
women  must  be  deprived  of  a  function 
that  gives  them  pleasure  because  the  men 
make  pigs  of  themselves." 

"  But  you  don't  understand,  Mrs.  Peda 
gog,"  the  Idiot  persisted.  "  I  grant  you 
that  the  man  who  eats  all  that  makes  a  pig 
of  himself,  but  he  has  no  choice.  He 
can't  help  himself.  When  a  charming 
hostess  insists,  he'd  be  a  greater  pig  if  he 
refused  to  partake  of  her  hospitality.  The 
custom  involved  an  inevitable  sacrifice  of 
man's  digestion  upon  the  altar  of  woman. 
That's  all  there  was  about  it.  If  it  could 
have  been  arranged  so  that  a  man  could 
take  a  hamper  about  with  him  and  stow  all 
the  cakes  and  salads  and  other  good  things 
away  in  that,  and  eat  them  later  as  he 
happened  to  need  or  want  them,  instead 
222 


'THEY  WERE  FOUND  SOME  DAYS  LATER  WHEN  THE  ROOM 
WAS  PUT  IN  ORDER  '  " 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

of  in  his  own  inner  self,  the  good  old 
custom  might  have  been  preserved,  but 
that  is  impossible  in  these  conventional 
days." 

"  You  needn't  have  eaten  it  all,"  put 
in  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  You  could  have  pre 
tended  to  eat  it  and  put  it  down  some 
where." 

"  I  know  that,  my  dear.  I  didn't  even 
on  that  occasion  eat  it  all — I  only  ate 
what  I  told  you.  I  found  eight  sand 
wiches  and  a  pint  of  salted  almonds  in  my 
coat-tail  pocket  the  next  morning,  which  I 
managed  surreptitiously  to  hide  away 
while  my  hostesses  were  getting  me  some 
thing  else,  and  in  one  place,  while  nobody 
was  watching  me,  I  hid  a  half-dozen 
pickled  oysters  under  a  sofa,  where  I  sup 
pose  they  were  found  some  days  later 
when  the  room  was  put  in  order." 

As  the  Idiot  spoke  the  clock  struck 
twelve,  and  the  guests  all  rose  up. 

"  Here's  to  the  New  Year !"  said  Mr. 
Pedagog. 

"  Not  yet,"  interposed  the  Idiot. 
"  That's  only  a  signal  for  the  Welsh  rare 
bits  to  be  brought  in.  I've  sworn  them  off 
for  the  New  Year,  but  I  haven't  for  the 
old.  The  clock  is  a  half -hour  fast." 
p  225 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  No,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Idiot.  "  It 
was,  but  I  put  it  back.  It's  exactly  right 
now." 

"  Then/'  said  the  Idiot,  "  I  join  you  in 
the  toast,  Mr.  Pedagog.  Here's  to  the 
New  Year :  may  it  bring  joy  to  everybody. 
Meanwhile  may  it  bring  also  the  Welsh 
rarebits." 

"  I  thought  you'd  sworn  off,"  suggested 
Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  So  I  had,"  replied  the  Idiot,  "  but  cir 
cumstances  over  which  I  have  no  control 
force  me  to  postpone  my  reformation  for 
another  twelve  months.  If  they  had  been 
served  at  half-past  eleven  I  should  have 
stuck  to  my  resolve ;  as  they  have  been  de 
layed  until  twelve-one  I  cannot  do  less 
than  eat  them.  I  do  not  believe  in  wilful 
waste ;  and  besides,  it  is  quite  as  much  the 
duty  of  the  host  to  consume  the  good 
things  he  places  before  his  guests  as  it  is 
for  the  guests  to  partake.  I  can  wait  a 
year,  I  think,  without  wholly  ruining 
what  little  digestion  my  former  devotion 
to  New- Year's  calling  has  left  me.  Gen 
tlemen,  I  propose  the  ladies:  May  their 
future  be  as  golden  as  this  rarebit;  and 
for  the  men,  may  they  always  be  worthy  to 
be  the  toast  upon  which  that  golden  future 
226 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

may  rest  with  the  certainty  born  of  con 
fidence." 

And  the  guests  fell  to  and  ate  each  a 
golden  buck  to  the  New  Year — all  save 
Mollie  and  Tommy.  These  two  important 
members  of  the  household  went  up  to  their 
little  beds,  but  just  before  going  to  sleep 
Tommy  called  through  the  door  to  his  lit 
tle  sister: 

"  Mollie  1" 

"Yeth!" 

"  Want  to  play  a  game  with  me  to-mor 
row?" 

"Yeth!" 

"  Well,  you  get  a  cake  and  a  pie  and 
some  gingersnaps  and  a  lot  of  apples  and 
some  candy  and  we'll  play  New- Year's 
calls." 

"Splendid!"  lisped  Mollie.  "You'll 
call  on  me  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Tommy ;  "  and  all  you'll 
have  to  do  will  be  to  force  food  on  me." 

And  they  soon  passed  into  the  land  of 
dreams. 


XII 

SOME  DOMESTIC  INVENTIONS 

"  I  THINK  I'll  give  up  the  business  of 
broking  and  go  into  inventing/7  said  the 
Idiot  one  Sunday  morning,  as  he  and 
Mrs.  Idiot  and  their  friends  sat  down  at 
breakfast.  "  There's  not  much  money  in 
stocks,  but  the  successful  inventor  of  a 
patent  clothes-pin  makes  a  fortune." 

"  I'd  think  twice  about  that  before  act 
ing/'  observed  Mr.  Brief.  "  There  may 
not  be  much  money  in  stocks,  but  you  can 
work  eight  hours  a  day,  and  get  good  pay 
in  a  broker's  office,  while  the  inventor  has 
to  wait  upon  inspiration." 

"  True  enough,"  said  the  Idiot ;  "  but 
waiting  on  inspiration  isn't  a  bad  busi 
ness  in  itself.  You  can  play  golf  or  read 
a  rattling  good  novel,  or  go  to  a  yacht- 
race  while  you  wait." 

"  But  where  does  the  money  come  in  2" 
228 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

asked  Mr.  Pedagog,  his  usual  caution 
coining  to  the  fore. 

"  Inspiration  brings  it  with  her,"  said 
the  Idiot,  "  and  by  the  barrel,  too. 
What's  the  use  of  toiling  eight  hours  a 
day  for  fifty  weeks  in  a  year  for  three 
thousand  dollars  when  by  waiting  on  in 
spiration  in  a  pleasant  way  you  make  a 
million  all  of  a  sudden  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog,  indulgent 
ly,  "  if  you  have  the  inspiration  lassoed, 
as  you  might  say,  your  argument  is  all 
right;  but  if  you  are  merely  going  to  sit 
down  and  wait  for  it  to  ring  you  up  on 
the  telephone,  and  ask  you  when  and 
where  you  wish  your  barrels  of  gold  de 
livered,  I  think  it  will  be  your  creditors, 
and  not  fortune,  who  will  be  found  knock 
ing  at  your  door.  How  are  you  going 
about  this  business,  provided  you  do  retire 
from  Wall  Street  ?" 

"  Choose  my  field  and  work  it,"  re 
plied  the  Idiot.  "  For  the  present  I 
should  choose  the  home.  That  is  the 
field  I  am  most  interested  in  just  now. 
I  should  study  its  necessities,  and  endeav 
or  to  meet  whatever  these  might  demand 
with  an  adequate  supply.  Any  man  who 
stays  around  home  all  day  will  find  lots 
229 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

of  room  for  the  employment  of  his  tal 
ents  along  inventive  lines." 

"  You've  tried  it,  have  you  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Brief. 

"  Certainly  I  have,"  said  the  Idiot, 
"  though  I  haven't  invented  anything 
yet.  Why,  only  last  week  I  stayed  home 
on  Monday — wash-day — and  a  thousand 
things  that  might  be  invented  suggested 
themselves  to  me." 

"  As,  for  instance  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Idiot, 
who  was  anxious  to  know  of  any  possible 
thing  that  could  mitigate  the  horrors  of 
wash-day. 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  help  you  much,  my 
dear,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  but  the  wash-lady 
would  hail  with  unmixed  delight  a  sub 
stitute  for  her  mouth  to  hold  clothes-pins 
in  while  she  is  hanging  out  the  clothes. 
I  watched  Ellen  in  the  yard  for  ten  min 
utes  that  day,  and  it  was  pathetic.  There 
she  was,  standing  on  her  tiptoes,  hanging 
innumerable  garments  on  the  line,  her 
mouth  full  of  clothes-pins,  and  Jimpson- 
berry's  hired  man  leaning  over  the  fence 
trying  to  shout  sweet  nothings  in  her  ear. 
If  she  had  had  a  nice  little  basket-hat  on 
her  head  to  hold  the  pins  in  she  could 
have  answered  back  without  stopping  her 
230 


'THERE'S  NOT  MUCH  MONEY  IN  STOCKS  : 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

work  every  other  minute  to  take  them  out 
of  her  mouth  in  order  to  retort  to  his 
honeyed  sentiments." 

Mrs.  Idiot  laughed.  "  Ellen  finds  time 
enough  to  talk  and  do  the  washing,  too," 
she  said.  "  I  sometimes  think  she  does 
more  talking  than  washing." 

"  No  doubt  of  it ;  she's  only  human, 
like  the  rest  of  us,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  But 
she  might  save  time  to  do  something  else 
for  us  if  she  could  do  the  washing  and 
the  talking  at  the  same  time.  She  may 
give  up  the  washing,  but  she'll  never  give 
up  the  talking.  Therefore,  why  not  make 
the  talking  easier  ?" 

"  What  you  need  most,  I  think,"  put 
in  Mr.  Brief,  "  is  an  instrument  to  keep 
hired  men  from  leaning  over  the  fence 
and  distracting  the  attention  of  the  laun 
dress  from  her  work.  That  would  be  a 
great  boon." 

"  Not  unless  idleness  is  a  great  boon," 
retorted  the  Idiot.  "  Half  the  hired  men 
I  know  would  be  utterly  out  of  employ 
ment  if  they  couldn't  lean  over  a  fence 
and  talk  to  somebody.  Leaning  over  a 
fence  and  talking  to  somebody  forms  sev 
enty-five  per  cent,  of  the  hired  man's 
daily  labor.  He  seems  to  think  that  is 
233 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

what  he  is  paid  for.  Still,  any  one  who 
objects  could  very  easily  remedy  the  con 
versational  detail  in  so  far  as  it  goes  on 
over  the  fence." 

"  By  the  use  of  barbed  wire,  I  pre 
sume,"  suggested  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  By  something  far  more  subtle  and 
delicately  suggestive,"  rejoined  the  Idi 
ot.  "  Hired  men  do  not  mind  barbed- 
wire  fences.  They  rather  like  them 
when  they  annoy  other  people.  When 
they  annoy  themselves  they  know  how  to 
treat  them.  My  own  man  Mike,  for  in 
stance,  minds  them  not  at  all.  Indeed, 
he  has  taken  my  pruning-shears  and  clip 
ped  all  the  barbs  off  the  small  stretch  of 
it  we  had  at  the  rear  end  of  our  lot  to 
keep  him  from  climbing  over  for  a  short 
cut  home." 

"  With  what  result  ?"  asked  Mr.  Brief. 

"  With  the  result  that  I  had  to  buy  a 
new  pair  of  pruning-shears,"  said  the  Id 
iot.  "  My  Anti-Over-the-Fence-Gabber," 
he  continued,  "  would  involve  certain 
complex  details,  but  it  would  work.  I 
should  have  an  electric  battery  connected 
with  the  upper  cable  of  the  fence,  and  an 
operator  stationed  inside  of  the  house, 
close  to  a  key  which  would  send  some  six 
234 


A    NICE    LITTLE    BASKET-HAT    ON   HER   HEAD   TO    HOLD 
THE   PINS   IN'  " 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

hundred  or  seven  hundred  volts  through 
the  cable  whenever  needed.  Then  if  I 
felt  that  Jimpsonberry's  man  was  inter 
fering  with  my  laundress,  as  soon  as  he 
leaned  over  the  fence  I'd  have  the  oper 
ator  send  him  an  electric  notice  to 
quit." 

"  A  message  ?"  said  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  No,  a  plain  shock.  Two  hundred 
volts  as  a  starter,  three  hundred  as  a  re 
minder,  and  the  full  seven  hundred  if 
necessary  to  make  the  hint  plainer." 

"  That  would  be  cruel/7  observed  Mrs. 
Pedagog. 

"Not  wholly,"  said  the  Idiot.  "It 
would  be  an  advantage  to  the  man  him 
self  in  one  way.  Hired  men  have  too 
little  electricity  in  their  systems,  Mrs. 
Pedagog.  If  Jimpsonberry's  man,  for 
instance,  would  take  all  the  electricity 
I'd  give  him  and  apply  it  to  his  work, 
Jimpsonberry's  unpulled  dandelions 
would  not  be  such  a  constant  menace  to 
my  lawn.  I  compel  Mike  to  weed  out 
my  lawn  every  spring  and  autumn,  but 
Jimpsonberry  doesn't  attend  to  his  at  all. 
He  doesn't  sleep  on  it,  and  so  doesn't 
bother  about  it.  Consequently,  when  his 
dandelions  go  to  seed  the  seed  is  blown 
237 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

over  into  my  grass,  and  every  year  I  get 
an  uninvited  crop,  which  at  a  dollar  a 
thousand  would  make  me  a  millionaire.'' 

"  Why  don't  you  apply  your  inventive 
genius  to  the  discovery  of  a  seedless  dan 
delion  ?"  asked  the  Lawyer.  "  It  seems 
to  me  that  would  be  the  best  solution  of 
the  dandelion  problem." 

"  Because  Jimpsonberry  wouldn't  have 
?em  if  I  discovered  'em,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  I  judge  from  the  millions  he  raises 
every  year  that  he  is  satisfied  with  dande 
lions  as  they  are.  He's  got  enough  for 
himself,  and  never  makes  any  charge  for 
those  he  gives  to  his  neighbors." 

"  I  think  a  furnace-feeder  would  be  a 
good  thing,  too,"  the  Idiot  continued,  in 
a  moment.  "  My  furnace  is  a  chronic 
sufferer  from  indigestion  because  on  some 
days  it  is  gorged  with  coal  and  on  others 
with  ashes.  Seems  to  me  if  I  could  get 
a  month's  time  in  which  to  concentrate 
my  attention  upon  a  furnace-feeder,  I 
could  devise  some  kind  of  a  contraption 
that  would  invoke  the  enthusiastic  love  of 
the  suburban  resident  in  Arctic  latitudes 
the  world  over." 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  that  possi 
bility  myself,"  observed  Mr.  Pedagog,  his, 
238 


AN    ELECTRIC    NOTICE   TO   QUIT'" 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

eyes  fondly  resting  upon  a  steaming 
plate  of  griddle-cakes  that  had  just  been 
brought  in.  "  But  coal  is  a  rebellious 
quantity.  A  furnace-feeder  would  need 
to  be  delicately  adjusted,  and  coal  cannot 
be  handled  with  delicacy.  It  requires  a 
chute  rather  than  a  tube.  It  must  be 
manipulated  with  the  shovel,  not  the  su 
gar-tongs." 

"  Correct,"  said  the  Idiot.  "There 
fore,  you  would  experiment  on  a  chute  or 
a  shovel,  abandoning  all  idea  of  refine- 
ing  the  coal.  I,  on  the  other  hand, 
would  experiment  with  the  coal  itself, 
Mr.  Pedagog.  Why  not  liquefy  it,  and 
let  it  drop  automatically  into  the  furnace 
through  a  self-acting  spigot  ?" 

"  Liquefy  coal  ?"  asked  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  Idiot,  "  We 
liquefy  pretty  nearly  everything  else. 
If  liquid  air,  why  not  liquid  coal? 
Everything  we  have  in  nature  in  these 
days  apparently  can  be  liquefied,  and 
while  I  am  not  familiar  with  the  proc 
ess,  I  see  no  reason  why  a  ton  of  coal 
should  not  be  reduced  to  such  a  shape  that 
it  can  be  bottled.  Once  bottled  and  pro 
vided  with  an  automatic  dropper,  it  could 
easily  be  adjusted  so  as  to  flow  in  proper 
Q  241 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

quantities  into  the  furnace  at  proper  in 
tervals." 

"  It  would  be  very  expensive.  Do  you 
know  what  a  pint  of  liquid  air  costs  ?"  de 
manded  the  Doctor. 

"No,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I  neither 
breathe  nor  drink  it.  The  plain  old  stuff 
is  good  enough  for  me,  and  cheap  if  you 
don't  have  to  go  to  the  mountains  or  the 
seashore  to  get  your  supply." 

"  Granting  coal  could  be  liquefied," 
the  Doctor  assented,  "  I  venture  to  say 
that  a  ton  of  it  would  cost  as  much  as  five 
hundred  dollars." 

"  I've  no  doubt  it  would,"  said  the 
Idiot ;  "  but  I  could  afford  a  ton  of  coal 
at  five  hundred  dollars  if  my  scheme 
worked.  A  successful  invention  would 
make  bread  seem  cheap  at  ten  dollars  a 
loaf.  There's  another  thing  I  should  put 
my  mind  on,  and  that  is  a  method  of  cook 
ing  a  cauliflower  so  that  everybody  in 
the  house,  as  well  as  the  neighbors,  should 
not  know  that  you  are  doing  so,"  he  con 
tinued.  "  I  am  particularly  fond  of 
cauliflower,  but  it  is  undeniable  that  in 
the  .process  of  cooking  it  becomes  obtru 
sive,  almost  to  the  point  of  ostentation. 
I've  spoken  about  it  manv  times.  Mike, 
242 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

the  gardener,  to  wLom  I've  spoken  on  the 
subject,  thinks  the  cauliflower  itself,  if 
sprinkled  with  eau  de  Cologne  while  grow 
ing,  would  cease  to  be  obnoxious  in  the 
cooking;  but  that  is  too  expensive  a  proc 
ess.  It  would  take  a  dozen  cases  of  eau 
de  Cologne  to  bring  a  single  cauliflower 
to  maturity.  My  son,  Tommy,  has  stated 
that  he  thinks  it  might  be  boiled  in  Flori 
da-water  instead  of  in  the  simple  variety 
that  comes  from  the  pipes.  A  good  sug 
gestion  for  a  small  boy,  but  also  expen 
sive.  Hired  men  and  small  boys  do  not 
think  of  the  exchequer  of  the  principal 
in  their  plans.  They  don't,  have  to. 
Their  allowance  and  wages  are  usually 
all  velvet — an  elegant  vulgarism  for  sur 
plus — and  for  my  own  part  I  have  con 
stantly  to  veto  their  little  schemes  for  the 
betterment  of  my  condition  in  order  to 
have  any  condition  at  all  left.  But  as 
far  as  the  arrangement  of  an  odorless 
cauliflower-cooker  is  concerned,  it  is  as 
simple  as  A  B  C,  barring  one  or  two  com 
plications." 

"  I  wish  you'd  hurry  up  and  invent 
it,"  cried  Mrs.  Idiot,  with  enthusiasm. 
"  What  are  the  main  features  of  this  sim 
ple  contrivance  ?" 

243 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  I'd  have  a  boiler,  in  the  first  place; 
in  which  to  boil  the  animal/'  said  the 
Idiot.  "  When  the  water  was  ready  I'd 
clap  the  creature  into  it,  and  before  it 
had  time  to  remonstrate  I'd  fasten  a  her 
metically  sealed  cover  over  the  top." 

"  But  when  you  took  it  off  the  results 
would  still  be  overpowering,"  said  Mr. 
Pedagog. 

"  No,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  for 
the  simple  reason  that  I  should  affix  a 
cold-air  box  and  a  flue  to  the  hermetically 
sealed  boiler.  Through  the  cold-air  bos 
fresh  air  would  constantly  flow  into  the 
boiler.  Through  the  flue  all  the  aromatic 
drawbacks  of  the  cauliflower  would  be 
carried  off  through  the  chimney  into  the 
upper  air.  Anybody  who  wished  to  know 
whether  we  were  going  to  have  cauliflower 
for  dinner  or  not  would  have  to  climb  up 
to  the  roof  and  sniff  at  the  chimey-top  to 
find  out." 

*    "It   is   simple,    isn't   it,   Mrs.    Idiot?" 
Mrs.  Pedagog  said. 

"Very,"  replied  Mrs.  Idiot.  "In 
deed,  it  seems  so  extremely  simple  that 
I  should  like  to  know  where  the  compli 
cations  lie." 

"  Where  all  the  complications  in  cook- 
244 


FINDING   OUT   WHAT    IS    BEING    COOKED   FOR   DINNER 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

ing  lie,  my  dear,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  in  the 
cook.  The  chief  complication  would  lie 
in  getting  a  cook  who  could,  or  if  she 
could,  would,  use  the  thing  intelligently." 

"  I  don't  see,'7  said  Mr.  Brief,  dryly 
— "  I  don't  see  but  that  what  you  ought 
to  devote  your  time  to,  my  dear  Idiot,  is 
the  invention  of  an  intelligent  cook." 

"  Humph!"  laughed  the  Idiot.  "I 
may  be  an  idiot,  Mr.  Brief,  but  I'm  not  an 
ass.  There  are  some  things  that  man  may 
reasonably  hope  to  accomplish — such  as 
setting  fire  to  the  Hudson  River,  or  grow 
ing  butternuts  on  the  summit  of  Mont 
Blanc — but  as  for  trying  to  invent  an  in 
telligent  cook  who  would  stay  in  the  coun 
try  for  more  than  two  weeks  for  less  than 
ten  thousand  dollars  a  year,  that,  sir, 
is  beyond  all  the  conceptions  of  the  hu 
man  mind." 

"Ain't  Bridget  intelligent,  pa?"  ask 
ed  Tommy. 

Here  was  a  complication,  for  Tommy 
liked  to  retail  to  Bridget  the  gossip  of  the 
day,  and  especially  what  "  pa  said." 

"  H'm  —  ah  —  oh  yes,  indeed,  she  is, 
Tommy,"  the  Idiot  replied,  with  some 
embarrassment.  "  Very ;  she's  been  with 
us  three  months." 

247 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  How  much  do  you  pay  her,  pa  ?"  ask 
ed  the  boy. 

"  Well/'  said  the  Idiot,  "  not  more  than 
fifteen  hundred  dollars  a  month.  Just 
take  another  griddle-cake,  my  son,  and 
remember  that  there  are  some  things  little 
boys  should  not  talk  about." 

"  Like  tumpany's  bald  heads  ?"  lisped 
Mollie,  complacently,  her  eye  fixed  upon 
Mr.  Pedagog's  shining  dome. 

"  Precisely,"  observed  Mr.  Pedagog, 
appreciating  the  situation. 

And  while  everybody  else  laughed  the 
Idiot  looked  upon  his  children  with  a 
sternly  affectionate  face. 

"  My  dear/'  said  he  to  Mrs.  Idiot,  "  I 
think  it  is  time  the  babies  got  ready  for 
Sunday-school." 


XIII 

A   SUBURBAN   COMPLICATION 

"  WELL,  old  chap,"  said  the  Poet  some 
weeks  later,  when  he  happened  to  be  spend 
ing  the  night  off  in  the  suburbs  with  his 
old  friend,  "  how  goes  the  noble  art  of  in 
venting?  Has  your  horseless  cauliflower 
bloomed  as  yet  ?" 

"  Horseless  cauliflower  is  good,  but 
tautological,77  said  the  Idiot.  "  The  cau 
liflower  is  an  automobile  in  itself,  with 
out  the  intervention  of  man.  Who  told 
you  I  was  inventing  instead  of  broking 
these  days  ?" 

"  Mr.  Pedagog  said  something  about  it 
the  last  time  I  met  him,"  said  the  Poet. 
"  He's  a  mighty  good  friend  of  yours.  He 
says  you  are  the  most  perfect  Idiot  he  ever 
met." 

"  He's  a  bully  good  fellow,"  said  the 
Idiot,  affectionately.  "  You  know  I  used 
to  think  Pedagog  wasn't  of  any  earthly  use 
249 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

except  to  teach  people  things,  but  as  I  look 
back  upon  my  experience  with  him  he  has 
never  taught  me  anything  that  was  worth 
forgetting.  So  he  told  you  I  was  going 
into  invention,  did  he  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  he  said  he  thought  you  were 
going  about  it  in  the  right  way,"  rejoined 
the  Poet.  "  You  weren't  spending  ten 
thousand  dollars  to  get  a  four  -  dollar  in 
vention  on  the  market,  he  said,  but  were 
inventing  things  that  you  knew  at  the  out 
set  weren't  worth  risking  your  money  on." 

The  Idiot  smiled  broadly. 

"  He  said  that,  did  he  ?  Well,  he  doesn't 
know  what  he  is  talking  about,"  he  retort 
ed.  "  I  am  spending  money  on  my  in 
ventions.  I  have  already  invested  fifty 
cents  in  my  patent  Clothes-Pin-Holding 
Laundry  -  Bonnet,  and  I  have  strung  the 
wires  along  my  fence  to  be  used  in  my 
electric  Hired-Man-Discourager ;  and  when 
I  have  managed  to  save  up  a  few  dollars 
more  I'm  going  to  get  a  battery  to  attach 
to  it,  when  woe  betide  that  man  of  Jimp- 
sonberry's  if  he  tries  to  talk  to  Maria  while 
she  is  at  work !  Furthermore,  I  have  ex 
tended  the  operations  of  that  same  useful 
invention  so  that  it  will  meet  a  long-felt 
want  in  all  suburban  communities  as  a 
250 


^5^^»^^M»^t 

^--—  :    "-•^B 

WflllCT 


"'COURTING  HIS  BE-T  GIHL  ON  SOMK  OTHKII  FELLOW'S 
STONK  WALL  '  " 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

discourager  of  promiscuous  wooing.  You 
never  lived  in  the  country,  did  you  ?" 

"  Not  permanently/'  said  the  Poet. 

"  Then  you  are  not  aware  of  a  singular 
habit  the  young  country  swain  has  of  court 
ing  his  best  girl  on  some  other  fellow's 
stone  wall  after  the  sun  goes  down,"  said 
the  Idiot.  "  Some  balmy  evening  next 
spring,  if  you'll  come  up  here  I'll  show 
you  one  of  the  features  of  suburban  life 
that  will  give  you  an  idea  for  a  poem. 
That  stone  wall  that  runs  along  the  front 
of  my  place  has  been  the  scene  of  more  en 
gagements  than  I  can  tell  you  of.  Many  a 
time  when  I  have  come  home  late  at  night 
I  have  counted  as  many  as  ten  couples  sit 
ting  on  the  cold  coping  of  that  wall  telling 
each  other  how  beautiful  the  world  is,  and 
holding  each  other  on  with  loving  arms." 

"  Rather  an  affecting  scene,  that,"  said 
the  Poet. 

"  It  was  at  first,"  rejoined  the  Idiot, 
"  and  I  rather  liked  to  see  it.  Indeed,  I 
once  suggested  to  Mrs.  Idiot  that  we  should 
have  the  coping  upholstered,  so  that  they 
might  sit  more  comfortably.  I  even  want 
ed  to  put  a  back  along  the  inner  side  of  it 
for  them  to  lean  against,  but  after  a  while 
it  palled.  We  couldn't  sit  out  on  our  own 
253 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

front  porch  on  a  summer  evening  and  talk 
without  sentimental  interruptions  that 
were  demoralizing  to  a  sustained  conversa 
tion.  We'd  try  to  talk,  for  instance,  about 
Browning,  or  Tennyson,  or  Le  Gallienne, 
or  some  other  poet  of  their  class,  when 
we'd  be  interrupted  by  such  sentiments  as, 
'  Ess  I  is,'  and  '  I's  oo  ducky,'  and  '  Ain't 
de  moon  boofer?'  Then  when  we  had 
guests  we  never  dared  to  take  them  out-of- 
doors,  but  remained  cooped  up  inside  the 
house,  because  Mrs.  Idiot  feared  to  in 
trude  upon  the  sacred  right  of  those  ten 
couples  to  do  their  courting  comparatively 
unobserved." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  nuisance,"  said 
the  Poet. 

"It  grew  to  be  so ;  but  I  hadn't  the  heart 
to  stop  it,  even  if  I  could  have  done  so,  so 
I  put  up  a  hedge  to  hide  them  from  view 
and  soften  the  sound  of  their  voices;  but 
it  didn't  work  very  long.  They  didn't 
seem  to  appreciate  my  motive,  and  it  so 
happened  that  the  hedge  which  I  put  up 
with  the  most  innocent  of  intentions  was 
a  Japanese  quince  that  blossoms  out  in 
thorns  half  an  inch  long,  to  an  extent 
which  suggests  the  fretful  porcupine. 
These,  for  some  reason  or  other,  excited 
254 


"'HOLDING  UP  A  GRKAT  OSAGE  ORANGE  ": 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

the  animosity  of  my  twenty  young  friends 
on  the  wall,  and  at  the  end  of  the  season 
there  were  not  two  consecutive  feet  of  the 
hedge  that  had  not  been  hacked  and  cut  to 
pieces  by  my  indignant  but  uninvited 
guests." 

"  What  impudence !"  cried  the  Poet. 

"  Only  the  ardor  of  youth/'  observed 
the  Idiot,  calmly.  "  Put  yourself  in  the 
same  place.  Suppose  that  you,  just  as  you 
were  about  to  declare  your  undying  love 
for  the  girl  of  your  choice,  and  while 
gently  stealing  your  arm  about  her  waist, 
were  to  have  the  back  of  your  hand  ripped 
off  by  a  brutal  hedge  ?" 

"  I  see,"  laughed  the  Poet.  "  I  dare 
say  I  should  be  indignant." 

"  They  were  properly  so,"  said  the 
Idiot,  "  properly  so ;  and  neither  Mrs. 
Idiot  nor  I  really  blamed  them. 

"  We  let  the  matter  rest,  and  made  no 
complaint,"  he  continued.  "  Time  went 
on,  and  the  courters  became  a  trifle  more 
assertive.  One  of  them  came  into  the 
house  one  evening  and  demanded  to  know 
what  I  meant  by  assaulting  him  and  his 
lady  friend,  holding  up  a  great  Osage 
orange  which  he  alleged  to  have  been  the 
murderous  weapon  I  had  used ;  and  I  real- 
B  257 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

ly  had  to  apologize,  for  I  was  guilty.  It 
happened  that  while  walking  about  my 
small  preserves  I  had  picked  up  this 
orange,  which  had  fallen  onto  my  lawn 
from  a  tree  on  Jimpsonberry's  place,  and 
had  unthinkingly  tried  to  see  how  far  I 
could  throw  it.  It  went  just  over  the 
hedge,  and  had  unceremoniously  knocked 
Strephon's  hat  into  the  middle  of  next 
week  and  frightened  Phyllis  into  hyster 
ics.  I  was  placed  on  the  defensive,  but 
for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  help  laugh 
ing,  with  the  result  that  Strephon  stalked 
angrily  away,  alleging  that  I  should  hear 
from  him  further  in  the  matter.7' 

"  And  did  you  ?"  asked  the  Poet. 

"  No,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  I  never  did ; 
but  the  incident  rather  soured  me  towards 
the  people  who  seemed  to  regard  my  stone 
wall  as  their  property.  I  even  came  to 
feel  like  purchasing  a  gatling-gun  and 
loading  it  with  Osage  oranges  for  the  pur 
pose  of  repelling  them,  but  even  under  this 
provocation  I  still  continued  to  ignore  the 
matter." 

"  You  are  too  easy-going,"  suggested 
the  Poet. 

"  I  was,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  until  they 
began  to  use  the  sidewalk  that  runs  par- 
258 


"'THE  PICTURE  OF  A  HEART  WITH  AN  ARROW  DRAWN 
THROUGH  IT  '  " 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

allel  with  the  wall  as  a  tablet  upon  which 
to  inscribe  in  letters  of  flame  their  undy 
ing  affection.  One  Sunday  morning,  as 
Mrs.  Idiot  and  I  started  for  church,  we 
were  horrified  to  find  our  flagstones 
scribbled  all  over  with  poetry,  done  in 
chalk,  after  the  order  of 

Roses    is    pink,    and   voilets    is   blue, 
Sugar  is  sweet,  and  so  be  you. 

Further  along  was  the  picture  of  a  heart 
with  an  arrow  drawn  through  it,  and  the 
two  names  '  Larry  7  and  '  Mame  ?  writ 
ten  on  either  side.  And  one  unusually 
affectionate  youth  had  actually  cut  the  in 
itials  of  his  young  lady  and  himself  in  the 
top  of  the  coping,  with  a  cold-chisel,  I 
suspect.  It's  there  yet.  It  was  then  my 
spirit  rose  up  into  fierce  denunciation. 
That  night,  when  the  clans  had  gathered 
and  were  going  through  the  initial  stages 
I  marched  out  in  front  of  them,  cleared 
my  throat  ostentatiously,  and  made  a 
speech.  It  was  the  most  nervous  speech 
I  ever  made ;  worse  than  after-dinner 
speaking  by  a  good  deal.  I  called  their 
attention  to  how  I  had  suffered:  referred 
pathetically  to  the  destruction  of  the 
261 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

hedge;  inveighed  sarcastically  against  the 
Osage-orange  man ;  told  them  in  highly 
original  fashion  that  worms,  if  taken  at 
the  ebb  that  leads  on  to  fortune,  would 
surely  turn  and  rend  their  persecutors, 
and  that  I'd  had  enough.  I  forgave  them 
the  hedge;  I  forgave  them  the  annoyance 
they  had  cost  me,  but  I  asserted  that  I'd 
see  them  all  condemned  to  eternal  celi 
bacy  before  I  would  permit  my  sidewalk  to 
be  turned  into  an  anthology  of  love,  and 
my  coping  into  an  intaglio  of  eternal  bless 
edness.  I  requested  them  if  they  wished 
to  write  poetry  to  write  it  upon  their  own 
hearths,  and  if  they  had  any  inscriptions 
to  cut  to  chip  in  and  buy  an  obelisk  of 
their  own  and  hieroglyph  to  their  hearts' 
content.  I  even  offered  to  buy  them  each 
a  slate  and  pencil,  which  they  might 
bring  with  them  when  they  came,  upon 
which  to  send  their  sentiments  down  to 
posterity,  and  I  finished  with  what  I  con 
sider  to  be  a  pleasing  perversion  of  Long 
fellow's  poem  on  the  Woodman,  with  a  few 
lines  beginning : 

Scribbler,  spare  that  sidewalk. 

Then  I  departed,  threatening  to  have 
them  all  arrested." 

262 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"Good!"  said  the  Poet.  "I  didn't 
think  you'd  ever  do  it.  You  have  nerve 
enough,  but  you  are  too  good-natured." 

"  I  wasn't  good-natured  then/'  said  the 
Idiot,  regretfully ;  "  and  when  I  got 
through  I  stalked  back  into  the  house, 
scolded  Mollie,  sent  Tommy  to  bed,  and 
behaved  like  a  bear  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening." 

"  And  the  people  on  the  wall  ?  They 
slunk  away  in  despair,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
Poet. 

"  Not  they,"  said  the  Idiot ;  "  not  by  a 
long  shot.  They  combined  against  me, 
and  next  morning  when  I  started  for  town 
I  found  my  sidewalk  in  worse  shape  than 
ever.  One  flag  had  written  upon  it  the 
pleasing  mandate  '  Go  drown  yourself.' 
Another  bore  the  mystic  word  '  Chump' 
in  great  capital  letters,  and  at  the  end  of 
my  walk  was  a  pastel  portrait  of  myself, 
of  rough  and  awkward  composition,  la 
belled  with  my  name  in  full.  It  took  my 
hired  man  two  weeks  to  scrub  it  out.  And 
on  the  following  Hallowe'en  they  strung  a 
huge  banner  on  my  telephone  wires,  in 
scribed  '  The  Idiot  Asylum,'  and  every 
blessed  gate  I  have  to  my  name  had  been 
removed  from  the  premises." 
263 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  What  an  outrage !"  cried  the  Poet. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Merely  a  suburban 
ebullition/'  said  the  Idiot.  "  They  don't 
mean  anything  by  it.  They  are  mere 
children,  after  all,  and  from  their  point  of 
view  I  have  interfered  with  their  rights." 

"  And  you  propose  to  stand  all  this  ?" 
asked  the  Poet.  "  If  I  were  you  I'd  get 
a  pile  of  broken  bottles,  as  they  do  in  Eng 
land,  and  place  them  along  the  top  of  that 
wall  so  that  they  couldn't  possibly  use  it." 

"  Brutal  custom,  that,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  May  do  for  Englishmen ;  won't  do  here 
at  all.  In  the  first  place,  it  spoils  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  wall ;  in  the  second  place, 
it  is  not  efficacious;  in  the  third  place,  it 
would  place  me  in  a  false  position. 
Everybody'd  soon  be  asking  where  I  got 
all  those  bottles.  An  Englishman  drinks 
enough  beer  in  the  course  of  a  week  to  keep 
his  walls  covered  with  broken  bottles  for 
a  century.  I  don't,  and  I'm  not  going  to 
buy  bottles.  I've  got  a  better  scheme." 

"  Ah !"  cried  the  Poet.  "  Now  we  are 
coming  to  the  invention." 

"  Merely  an  extension  of  my  (  Hired- 
Man  -  Discourager,' '  said  the  Idiot. 
"  Simple,  and  I  trust  efficacious.  I  am 
going  to  put  a  live  wire  along  the  coping 
264 


'IT    TOOK    MY    HIUKD    MAN    TWO    WEEKS   TO    SCRUB    IT   OUT1 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

of  my  wall.  Broken  bottles  are  cheap, 
my  dear  Poet,  but  they  don't  work.  If  I 
put  broken  bottles  on  my  wall  the  Amal 
gamated  Brotherhood  of  Wooers  would 
meet  on  my  lawn  and  pass  resolutions 
against  me,  and  ultimately  they  would  de 
mand  the  use  of  my  parlor,  unless  I  mis 
understand  their  nature. 

"  The  lovers'  rights  must  be  respected 
always,  and  I'm  truly  thankful  that  they 
have  stopped  short  at  my  frontage.  When 
they  operate  along  my  frontier-line  they 
are  harmless,  interesting,  even  amusing. 
If  they  carry  their  principles  through 
and  penetrate  beyond  the  edge,  why, 
then  Mrs.  Idiot  and  I  will  have  to  give 
it  up. 

"  My  scheme  is  to  make  them  feel  that 
they  are  welcome  to  the  wall,  but  to  make 
the  wall — well,  to  give  an  element  of  sur 
prise  to  the  wall.  Just  as  Jimpsonberry's 
man  is  soon  to  be  surprised  electrically, 
which  is  legitimately,  so  do  I  propose  to 
surprise  these  inconsiderate  persons  who 
cut  down  my  hedges,  who  scribble  up  my 
sidewalk  with  their  poems,  and  who  hang 
Hallowe'en  banners  on  my  telephone 
wires.  I  wish  them  all  well,  but  next 
spring  when  they  attempt  to  revive  the  cus- 
26Y 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

toms  of  the  past  they  will  find  that  even  I 
am  resentful." 

"But  how?" 

"  I  shall  have  a  wire  running  along  the 
coping,  as  I  have  already  said,  that  be 
tween  the  hours  of  eight  and  twelve  P.M. 
will  be  so  full  of  shocking  things  that  my 
uninvited  guests  will  cease  to  bother  me. 
Can  you  imagine  the  effect  of  a  live  wire 
upon  ten  loving  couples  engaged  in  look 
ing  at  the  moon  while  sitting  on  it  ?" 

"  Yet  you  claim  to  insist  upon  their 
rights  as  lovers,"  said  the  Poet,  deprecat- 
ingly. 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  Man  has  a  right  to  make  love  wherever 
he  can.  If  he  can't  make  love  on  my  wall, 
let  him  make  love  somewhere  else." 

"  But  where  ?"  cried  the  Poet.  "  Your 
swains  up  here  have  no  home,  apparent- 
ly." 

"  Or  Jimpsonberry's  wall,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "  By  the  way,  do  you  know  any 
thing  about  moths  ?" 


XIV 

SOME    CONSIDERATION    OF    THE    MOTH 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  the 
habits  of  moths  ?"  repeated  the  Idiot. 

"Moths?"  echoed  the  Poet,  eying 
the  Idiot  closely,  the  transition  from  live 
wires  to  moths  proving  rather  too  sudden 
for  his  comprehension.  "  No,  I  don't 
know  anything  about  moths  except  that  I 
have  heard  that  they  are  an  unmitigated 
nuisance." 

"  They  are  worse  than  a  nuisance,"  said 
the  Idiot.  "  They  are  a  devouring  ele 
ment,  and  they  are  worse  than  fire.  If 
your  house  catches  fire  you  can  summon 
an  engine  and  have  it  put  out,  and  what 
damage  it  does  you  can  collect  for  if  you 
are  careful  enough  to  keep  your  posses 
sions  insured ;  but  with  the  moth  it  is  dif 
ferent.  There  isn't  any  moth  department 
in  town  that  you  can  ring  up,  nor  is  there 
269 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

a  moth-extinguisher  that  you  can  keep 
close  at  hand  to  fight  them  with.  Further 
more,  there  is  no  moth-insurance  company 
here  or  elsewhere  to  protect  the  man  who 
suffers  damage  at  their  teeth,  that  I  know 
of. 

"  He  is  a  mean,  sneaking,  underhand 
ed  element,  the  moth  is.  Fire  has  a  de 
cent  sense  of  the  proprieties.  Moths  have 
none  at  all.  When  fire  attacks  you  it 
smokes,  and  crackles,  and  hisses,  and  roars, 
and  lets  you  know  in  clarion  tones  that 
it  has  come.  The  moth  steals  upon  you 
in  the  dead  of  night,  and  chews  up  your 
best  trousers,  gorges  himself  upon  your 
wife's  furs,  tickles  his  palate  with  your 
swellest  flannel  golf-shirt,  munches  away 
upon  your  handsomest  rug,  punches  holes 
in  your  best  sofa-cushions  with  his  tusks, 
and  then  silently  folds  his  tent  and  steals 
away  without  so  much  as  a  thank-you  for 
his  meal.  For  unmitigated  meanness  com 
mend  me  to  the  moth  !" 

"  You  seem  to  speak  with  feeling,"  said 
the  Poet,  with  a  smile.  "  Have  you  suf 
fered  ?" 

"Suffered?"  cried  the  Idiot.  "Suf 
fered  is  not  the  word.  They  have  tort 
ured  me.  Alongside  of  the  moth  and  his 
270 


IAN  UNPAID  GROCER'S  BILL  BECOMES  AN  ABSOLUTE  PLEASURE' 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

nefarious  work  even  a  book-agent  pales 
into  insignificance,  and  an  unpaid  grocer's 
bill  becomes  an  absolute  pleasure.  You 
can  meet  a  book-agent  on  his  own  ground, 
for  you  know  his  limitations.  I  have  done 
so  myself.  Only  yesterday  one  of  them 
called  upon  me  to  sell  me  a  Cyclopedia 
of  Cookery,  and  before  he  got  away  I 
had  actually  sold  him  a  copy  of  your 
poems." 

"  Ah/'  said  the  Poet,  shaking  his  head. 
"  You  sold  my  gift,  did  you  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  laughed  the  Idiot. 
"  When  your  book  came  out  I  bought  a 
copy,  and  two  days  later  you  sent  me 
another  with  an  inscription,  which  I  treas 
ure  affectionately.  I  sold  him  the  one 
I  bought." 

"  You  are  a  beautiful  Idiot,"  said  the 
Poet,  slapping  his  knee  enthusiastically. 

"  I  don't  lay  claim  so  much  to  beauty 
as  to  sublimity,"  said  the  Idiot,  lighting 
a  cigar.  "  And  even  that  is  not  to  my 
credit.  Beauty  and  sublimity  are  gifts. 
No  amount  of  cultivation  can  produce 
genius  when  it  does  not  exist.  When  I 
see  a  beautiful  woman  it  is  not  she  that  I 
admire.  I  admire  the  gracious  Hand  that 
made  her." 

s  273 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  Give  me  that  idea,  old  man !"  cried 
the  Poet. 

"  It  is  yours  from  this  on/'  said  the 
Idiot,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  am  not  equal  to  it. 
I  may  be  able  to  think  thoughts,  but 
thoughts  are  of  no  more  use  to  me  than  a 
piano  is  to  a  man  who  can't  read  music. 
But  we  are  becoming  discursive.  We 
were  talking  about  moths,  not  thoughts. 
You  said  that  I  must  have  suffered,  and  I 
said  that  I  had  been  tortured,  and  I  have. 
My  evening  clothes  have  been  ruined  by 
them;  my  best  shirts  have  been  eaten  by 
them ;  my  silk  hat,  in  wrhich  I  have  taken 
much  pride,  has  four  bald  spots  on  its  side 
because  of  their  insatiable  appetite,  and 
as  far  as  I  can  find  out,  I  have  no  redress. 
You  can't  sue  a  moth  for  damages,  you 
know,  with  any  degree  of  satisfaction." 

"  Why  should  you  expect  to  sue  a  moth 
for  damages  any  more  than  to  have  a  mos 
quito  indicted  for  assault  ?"  suggested  the 
Poet. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  you 
can  treat  the  mosquito  without  much  dif 
ficulty.  He  merits  capital  punishment, 
and  if  you  are  yourself  alert  you  can 
squash  him  at  the  moment  of  his  crime. 
But  the  moth  is  different.  You  are  ab- 
274 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

solutely  helpless  in  the  face  of  him.  He 
works  in  secret." 

"  I  am  told  that  there  are  such  things 
as  camphor-balls/'  observed  the  Poet. 

"There  are/'  said  the  Idiot.  "And 
I  truly  think  the  moth  enjoys  them  as 
much  as  a  young  girl  enjoys  a  military 
ball.  Whenever  we  give  a  camphor-ball 
the  moths  attend,  and  as  far  as  I  can  find 
out  dance  all  through  it.  They  seem  to 
enjoy  functions  of  that  nature.  Further 
more,  I  have  yet  to  meet  the  man  who  likes 
to  go  about  in  a  suit  of  clothes  that  smells 
like  a  drug-store.  I  don't.  I  hate  the 
odor  of  camphor,  and  if  I  have  my  choice 
of  going  to  a  dinner  in  a  perforated  dress- 
suit  or  in  one  that  is  redolent  of  the  cam 
phor-ball,  I  prefer  the  one  with  holes  in 
it.  What  I  can't  understand  is  why  a 
race  as  proud  as  the  one  to  which  you  and 
I  belong  should  have  to  knuckle  under  to 
an  inferior  lot  of  insects  such  as  the  moth 
represents." 

"  I  suppose  there  is  something  about  it 
that  we  cannot  understand,"  said  the  Poet, 
dreamily.  "  All  created  things  have  their 
uses.  The  lion,  the  elephant,  the  tiger, 
the  boa-constrictor,  all  have  their  work  to 
do  in  life.  Even  the  mosquito  has  his 
277 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

mission,  whatever  it  may  be.  You  must 
admit  this.  Why  not,  therefore,  admit 
that  the  moth  serves  a  purpose  in  the  great 
scheme  of  life  ?" 

"  My  dear  Poet,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  far 
be  it  from  me  to  deny  the  truth  of  what 
you  say.  There  is  hardly  a  living  creat 
ure  that  I  have  ever  encountered  in  all 
my  life  that  has  not  had  some  truly  utili 
tarian  quality  in  its  make-up.  The  lion 
is  a  splendid  creature,  and  with  the  bear 
and  the  fox  and  the  rhinoceros  and  the 
tapir  he  serves  a  purpose.  They  at  least 
teach  boys  geography,  and  teach  it  in 
terestingly.  The  boy  who  knows  where 
the  tapir  hath  its  lair  knows  more  geogra 
phy  than  I  do.  My  son  Tommy  has  learn 
ed  more  of  geography  from  a  visit  to  the 
circus  where  those  animals  are  shown  than 
he  ever  learned  from  books.  I  can  quite 
see  likewise  the  utilitarian  value  of  the 
mosquito.  He  keeps  the  sea-shore  from 
being  overcrowded,  and  he  prevents  some 
people  from  sleeping  too  much.  He  is  an 
accomplished  vocalist,  and  from  my  own 
point  of  view  is  superior  to  a  Wagner 
opera,  since  Wagner  opera  puts  me  to 
sleep,  while  the  magnificent  discords  of 
the  mosquito  keep  me  awake.  But  the 
278 


"'THEY   EAT   UP    MY    NEW  CLOTHES' 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

moth  is  beyond  me.  What  his  contribu 
tion  to  the  public  welfare  may  be  I  cannot 
reason  out,  although  I  have  tried." 

"  And  you  find  nothing  in  his  favor  ?" 
asked  the  Poet. 

"  Much,"  replied  the  Idiot,  "  but  he  has 
no  system.  His  mission  is  to  eat  old 
clothes,  but  he  is  such  a  very  disgusting 
glutton  that  he  does  not  discriminate  be 
tween  old  and  new,  and  I  have  no  use  for 
him.  If  in  his  search  for  a  meal  he  would 
choose  the  garments  of  three  years  ago, 
which  I  ought  not  to  wear  because  they 
are  so  old-fashioned  as  to  make  me  con 
spicuous  when  I  do  wear  them,  it  would 
be  all  right.  But  the  moth  is  no  such  dis 
criminating  person.  He  is  not  a  lover 
of  old  vintages.  When  he  calls  in  a  num 
ber  of  his  brother  moths  to  dine  at  his  ex 
pense  he  does  not  treat  them  to  an  overcoat 
of  '89,  or  to  a  dress-suit  of  '93,  or  to  a  silk 
hat  laid  down  in  ?95.  He  wants  the  la 
test  thing,  and  as  far  as  I  can  find  out  he 
gets  it.  I  have  just  been  compelled  to  lay 
in  a  new  stock  of  under  and  over  clothes 
because  the  ones  I  had  have  been  served 
upon  his  table." 

"  The  moth  must  live,"  observed  the 
Poet. 

281 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  I'm  perfectly  willing  he  should  if 
he'll  only  discriminate/'  retorted  the 
Idiot.  "  We  have  enough  old  clothes  in 
this  house,  my  dear  Poet,  to  give  a  ban 
quet  of  seventeen  courses  to  six  hundred 
moths  every  night  for  the  next  six  months. 
If  they  would  content  themselves  with 
that  I  should  be  satisfied.  But  they 
won't.  They  eat  up  my  new  clothes ;  they 
destroy  my  new  hats;  they  munch  away 
upon  my  most  treasured  golf -vests.  That 
is  why  I  asked  you  if  you  knew  anything 
about  moths.  I  am  anxious  to  reform 
them.  As  you  have  said,  I  have  gone  into 
inventing,  and  my  inventions  are  wholly 
designed  to  meet  long-felt  wants  in  all 
households.  The  man  who  invents  a 
scheme  to  circumvent  or  properly  to  satis 
fy  the  appetite  of  the  moth  will  find  his 
name  indissolubly  linked  with  fame.  I 
have  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought 
about  it.  The  moth  must  either  be  domes 
ticated  or  extinguished.  I  have  tried  to 
extinguish  him,  but  without  avail.  When 
he  has  flown  forth  I  have  endeavored  to 
punch  him  in  the  head,  and  I  have  wasted 
my  enejgy  upon  the  unresponsive  air.  Did 
you  ever  undertake  to  punch  a  moth  in  the 
head?" 

282 


4  WASTED   MY    ENERGY    UPON    THE    UNRESPONSIVE    AIR1" 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

"  Never,"  said  the  Poet.     "  I  am  not 
a  fighter." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  rejoined  the  Idiot,  "  I 
don't  know  a  hero  in  real  life  or  in  fiction 
who  could  meet  a  moth  on  his  own  ground. 
I  read  about  Mr.  Willie  B.  Travers,  of 
New  York,  who  can  drive  four  horses 
about  the  arena  at  the  horse  show  without 
turning  a  hair.  I  read  about  Emerson 
McJones,  of  Boston,  putting  up  his  face 
against  the  administration  on  a  question 
of  national  import.  I  have  read  of  the 
prowess  of  Alexander,  of  CaBsar,  of  D'Ar- 
tagnan,  of  Bonaparte,  and  of  Teddy 
"Roosevelt,  but  there  isn't  a  man  among 
'em  who  can  fight  the  moth.  You  can 
bombard  him  with  a  gatling-gun  loaded 
to  the  muzzle  with  camphor-balls,  and  he 
still  waves  his  banner  defiantly  in  your 
face.  You  may  lunge  at  him  with  a  ra-. 
pier,  and  he  jumps  lightly  aside,  and  to 
express  his  contempt  bites  a  hole  in  your 
parlor  hangings.  You  can  turn  the  hose 
on  him,  and  he  soars  buoyantly  away  out 
of  reach.  You  can't  kill  him,  because 
you  can't  catch  him.  You  can't  drive  him 
away,  and  until  we  go  back  to  the  dress 
of  the  knights  of  old  and  wear  nickel- 
plated  steel  clothing,  and  live  in  rooms 
285 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

of  solid  masonry,  we  can't  starve  him  out. 
There  is,  therefore,  only  one  thing  to  do, 
and  that  is  to  domesticate  him.  If  you 
in  the  course  of  your  investigations  into 
nature  have  ever  discovered  any  trait  in 
the  moth  that  science  can  lay  hold  upon, 
something  through  which  we  can  appeal 
to  his  better  nature,  if  he  has  such  a  thing, 
you  will  be  conferring  a  great  boon  upon 
the  whole  domestic  world.  What  I  want 
to  find  out  is  if  he  possesses  some  par 
ticularly  well-defined  taste;  if  there  is 
any  one  kind  of  texture  or  fabric  that 
he  likes  better  than  another.  If  there 
is  such  a  thing  I'll  have  a  brand-new 
suit  made  of  that  same  material  espe 
cially  for  him,  furnish  a  nice  comfort 
able,  warm  spot  in  the  attic  as  a  dining- 
room,  and  let  him  feed  there  f orevermore, 
when  and  how  he  pleases.  The  manners 
and  customs  of  moths  are  an  open  book  to 
most  of  us.  His  tastes  are  as  mysterious 
as  the  ocean's  depths." 

The  Poet  shook  his  head  dubiously. 
"  I  am  afraid,  my  dear  Idiot,  that  you 
have  at  last  tackled  a  problem  that  will 
prove  too  much  for  you.  How  to  get  at 
the  point  you  desire  is,  I  fear,  impossible 
of  discovery,"  he  said. 
286 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  It  would  seem  so,"  replied  the  Idiot. 
"  But  I  shall  not  despair.  If  the  ordinary 
cook  of  commerce  can  be  made  humanly 
intelligent  I  do  not  see  any  reason  why 
we  should  abandon  so  comparatively  sim 
ple  a  proposition  as  the  domesticization  of 
the  moth." 

Tommy  and  Mollie  had  been  listening 
with  great  interest,  and  as  the  Idiot  finish 
ed  Mollie  observed  that  she  thought  the 
best  way  to  do  was  to  ask  the  moth  what 
he  liked  most,  but  Tommy  had  a  less  con 
ciliatory  plan- 

"  Best  thing's  to  get  rid  of  'em  alto 
gether,  pa,"  he  said.  "  Mollie  and  I'll 
squash  'em  for  you  for  fi'  cents  apiece." 

Which  struck  the  Poet  as  the  most  prac 
tical  idea  that  had  been  advanced  during 
the  discussion. 


XV. 

SOME  CONSIDERATION  OF  THE  BURGLAE 

"  ARE  you  ever  bothered  much  by  burg 
lars  off  here  in  the  country  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Pedagog  one  spring  afternoon,  as  he  and 
the  Idiot  and  the  youngsters  strolled  about 
the  Idiot's  small  farm. 

"  No,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  They've  only 
visited  me  twice." 

"  Only  twice,  eh  ?"  observed  the  School 
master.  "  Well,  I  should  think  that  was 
often  enough,  considering  that  you  haven't 
lived  here  more  than  a  year  and  a  half." 

"It  was,"  said  the  Idiot.  "I  didn't 
say  I  wanted  them  to  come  again,  did  I  ?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  returned  Mr.  Pedagog. 
"  But  you  said  '  only  twice,'  as  if  two 
visits  of  that  nature  were  less  than  might 
have  been  expected." 

"Well,  aren't  they?"  asked  the  Idiot. 
"  Just  make  a  little  calculation.  I've  lived 
on  this  place  precisely  five  hundred  and 
288 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

ninety-four  days,  and,  of  course,  an  equal 
number  of  nights.  It  seems  to  me  that  in 
breaking  into  my  house  only  twice  when 
they  might  have  come  every  night  shows 
a  degree  of  restraint  upon  our  Suburban 
Burglary  Company  that  is  worthy  of  the 
highest  commendation.  You,  of  course, 
refer  to  professional  burglars,  don't  you  2" 

Mr.  Pedagog  laughed.  u  Are  there  any 
amateur  burglars  <f ' 

"  Are  there  !"  ejaculated  the  Idiot. 
"  Well,  rather.  There  is  the  Gasman, 
and  man  who  inspects  the  water-meter,  and 
the  Iceman,  and  the  Plumber.  If  you  re 
fer  to  that  class,  why,  I  have  them  with  me 
always." 

"  Which  of  the  two  classes  do  you  pre 
fer  ?"  asked  Mr.  Pedagog,  with  a  chuckle. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  quite  sure  as  to  that," 
returned  the  Idiot.  "  I've  often  wondered 
myself  whether  I  preferred  the  straight- 
out  honest  pirate,  who  does  his  work  sur 
reptitiously  by  night,  and  who  doesn't  pre 
tend  to  be  anything  but  a  pirate,  or  the 
sleek,  insinuating  chap,  who  comes  into 
3/our  house  by  day,  and  runs  dp  a  bill 
against  you  which  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
he  knows  is  not  a  proper  one.  There  are 
burglars  and  burglars  in  this  world,  Mr. 
T  289 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

Pedagog,  and  the  one  who  lands  in  the 
penitentiary  is  not  always  a  bigger  rascal 
than  the  fellow  who  holds  the  respect  of 
the  community  and  sets  himself  up  as  a 
prominent  citizen.  Highwaymen  may  be 
divided  into  classes,  some  of  them  respect 
able,  others  not.  There  was  Dick  Turpin, 
who  ran  honest  risks  to  obtain  a  living ; 
there  are  men  in  Wall  Street  who  work 
greater  ruin,  and  are  held  in  higher  esteem. 
There  is  the  footpad  who  takes  your  watch, 
and  pawns  it  to  buy  bread  for  his  starving 
family,  and  there  is  the  very  charming 
young  person  who  sits  behind  a  table  at  a 
church  fair,  and  charges  you  seven  dollars 
for  a  fifty-cent  sofa-cushion.  So  it  goes. 
Socially  I  prefer  the  esteemed  citizen  who 
makes  me  pay  twenty-eight  dollars  for  ten 
dollars'  worth  of  gas;  but  when  it  comes 
down  to  a  strict  business  basis  I  must  say 
I  have  lost  less  money  through  the  opera 
tions  of  the  professional  thief  than  through 
those  of  the  amateur  highwayman.  Take 
a  recent  case  in  my  own  experience,  for  in 
stance.  Only  last  week  I  sent  anonymous 
ly  a  small  clock  which  cost  me  twenty  dol 
lars  to  a  guild  fair  here  in  town,  and  Mrs. 
Idiot  bought  it  for  a  birthday  present  for 
me  for  forty  dollars.  In  other  words,  I 
290 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

have  a  twenty-dollar  clock  on  my  hands 
that  has  cost  me  sixty  dollars.77 

"  But  you  have  the  satisfaction  of  know 
ing  that  you  have  contributed  to  the  good 
work  of  the  guild/7  suggested  Mr.  Peda 
gog. 

"  That  is  true  enough,77  said  the  Idiot ; 
"  but  the  guild  is  only  forty  dollars  to  the 
good.  They'd  have  been  better  off  if  I  had 
given  them  fifty  dollars  in  cash,  and  I'd 
have  saved  ten.'7 

"  But  you  have  the  clock,77  insisted  Mr. 
Pedagog. 

"  I  certainly  have,77  replied  the  Idiot ; 
"and  if  time  is  money  I  shall  soon  be  rich, 
for  that  clock  makes  time  to  beat  the  band. 
If  it  keeps  on  as  it  has  started  and  we  stand 
by  it,  we  shall  soon  be  about  a  month  ahead 
of  the  sun.  It  gains  a  week  every  forty- 
eight  hours.  If  that  clock  were  truthful, 
I  should  be  a  centenarian  at  forty.77 

"  But  you're  not  sorry  you  gave  it  ?" 
said  Mr.  Pedagog,  deprecatingly. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  My  only 
regret  is  that  Mrs.  I.  bought  it.  But,77  he 
added,  hastily,  "  she  needn't  know  that.77 

"  I  won't  say  a  word,"  said  Mr.  Peda 
gog- 

u  I  won't,   neither,   pa/7   said   Tommy. 

291 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

with  a  degree  of  complacency  which  show 
ed  that  the  temptation  to  tell  was  great. 

"  Well,  I  won't  say  mor'n  two  or  three 
words  about  it,  anyhow,"  put  in  Mollie, 
not  anxious  to  commit  herself  to  perpetual 
silence  on  the  subject. 

"  It  is  the  most  beautiful  clock  I  ever 
saw,"  said  the  Idiot,  quickly,  realizing  the 
possibilities  of  Mollie's  two  or  three  words. 

"  That's  what  I  fink,"  said  Mollie,  "  and 
I'm  goin'  to  tell  mamma  that  you  said  so." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  Suppose 
you  and  Tommy  run  right  up  and  tell  her 
now." 

"  I'd  rather  hear  you  talk,  pa,"  said 
Tommy. 

"  He  does  take  after  you,  doesn't  he  ?" 
said  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  he  does.  He 
likes  to  hear  me  talk  as  much  as  I  do,  bless 
him!" 

"  It  is  a  commendable  sign  in  a  son," 
observed  Mr.  Pedagog.  "  But  tell  about 
the  two  professionals.  Did  they  get  any 
thing?" 

"  They  did,"  said  the  Idiot.     "  And  at 

the  same  time  I  lost  nothing.      The  first 

chap  came  on  the  scene  along  about  two 

o'clock  in  the  morning.     He  was  a  verv 

292 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

industrious  mechanic,  and  I  regret  to  say 
he  was  not  adequately  paid  for  his  ser 
vices.  He  tackled  the  safe."  At  this 
point  the  Idiot  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  heartily. 

'•'  I  have  seen  the  safe,"  said  Mr.  Peda- 
gog,  "  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear 
Idiot,  I  have  wondered  at  your  choosing  so 
obvious  a  receptacle  for  your  valuables. 
It  does  not,  to  my  mind,  deny  itself  as  a 
safe  should.  It  advertises  the  fact  that 
your  silver,  your  wife's  jewels  perhaps,  are 
within.  I  have  spoken  once  or  twice  to 
our  friend  Mr.  Brief  about  it." 

"  No  doubt,"  replied  the  Idiot.  "  How 
ever,  I  can't  see  why  a  safe  has  any  disad 
vantages." 

"  It  lies  in  this,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog, 
impressively.  "  You  confess  at  once  to 
the  burglar  the  exact  location  of  the  things 
he's  after.  Without  a  safe  your  silver,  or 
Mrs.  Idiot's  jewels,  such  as  they  are,  might 
be  found  anywhere  in  the  house.  But 
when  you  take  the  trouble  to  buy  a  safe, 
any  burglar  in  creation  who  has  ordinary 
common-sense  must  know  that  your  valu 
ables  are  concentrated  in  that  one  spot." 

"  That,  I  rejoice  to  say,"  said  the  Idiot, 
"  is  the  burglar's  view." 
293 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  You  should  not  rejoice/'  said  Mr.  Ped 
agog,  with  some  of  his  old-time  severity. 
"  You  make  his  work  so  comparatively  easy 
that  he  is  content  to  follow  a  base  profes 
sion,  as  you  have  termed  it.  Truly,  I 
wonder  at  you.  You  place  on  your  first 
floor  a  bald  safe — 

"  I  haven't  seen  any  advertised  as  having 
a  full  head  of  hair,"  observed  the  Idiot, 
complacently. 

"  You  misunderstand  me,"  said  Mr. 
Pedagog.  "  When  I  say  bald  I  mean  evi 
dent,  plain,  obvious.  You  practically  say : 
Here  are  the  things  which  I  value.  What 
is  to  be  found  within  this  safe,  Mr.  Burg 
lar,  are  the  very  things  you  are  after. 
Therefore,  say  you  to  the  burglar :  Attack 
this  safe.  Break  it  open,  rifle  it  of  its 
contents ;  in  other  words,  here  is  the  swag, 
as  I  believe  it  is  called." 

"  You  are  wholly  right,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  I  bought  that  safe  for  that  precise  reason, 
and  I  bought  a  big  one,  and  a  strong  one. 
But  you  don't  know  the  story  of  that  safe, 
do  you,  Mr.  Pedagog  ?" 

"  I  do  not,"  said  the  Schoolmaster. 

"  Then  let  me  tell  you,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  That  safe  has  been  broken  open,  and  by 
a  professional  burglar.  The  burglar  had 
294 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

his  tools,  and  he  had  his  expert  knowledge 
of  their  use.  He  arrived  at  my  house,  as 
I  recall  the  situation,  somewhere  about— 
ah — two  o'clock  at  night.  He  bored  at 
the  lock  until  three.  He  fooled  about  the 
combination.  He  did  everything  that  a  re 
spectable  burglar  might  be  expected  to  do, 
and- 

"  He  failed,  of  course,  since  you  say  you 
have  lost  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  Not  at  all/7  said  the  Idiot.  "  After 
two  hours  and  fifty-five  minutes'  work  on 
that  safe  he  got  it  open.  And— 

"  And  ?"  queried  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  He  found  it  empty,"  said  the  Idiot ; 
"  absolutely  empty.  There  was  not  a 
spoon,  a  fork,  a  tea-pot,  or  a  diamond  neck 
lace,  or  even  a  scrap  of  paper  in  it." 

"  Then  why  do  you  have  it,"  said  Mr. 
Pedagog. 

"  Merely  to  keep  the  burglar  busy  while 
he  is  in  my  house,  and  to  make  him  expert 
in  honest  work.  An  ordinary  mechanic, 
intelligent  enough  to  get  that  safe  open  by 
night  or  by  day,  would  be  entitled  to  at 
least  two  dollars  for  his  services.  The  in 
dividual  involved  got  it  open ;  and  when  he 
opened  it — " 

"  Found  nothing !"  cried  Mr.  Pedagog. 
295 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  Exactly/'  said  the  Idiot,  pulling  away 
on  his  cigar.  "  I  suppose  I  should  have 
left  a  check  inside  payable  to  bearer  for  a 
dollar  and  a  half  to  compensate  him  for 
his  trouble,  but  I  am  so  neglectful  that  I 
really  didn't." 

"  And  you  bought  a  safe — 

"  Merely  to  provide  employment  for  the 
unemployed  burglar/'  said  the  Idiot. 
"  That  is  all  a  safe  is  good  for,  Mr.  Peda- 
gog.  Experience  has  shown  that  the 
house-safe  isn't  worth  the  paint  it  is  cov 
ered  with  in  the  matter  of  protection.  But 
as  a  decoy  it  works  to  a  charm.  A  safe, 
in  other  words,  is  a  splendid  thing  to  keep 
things  out  of,  as  well  as  to  keep  the  burg 
lar  busy  while  he  is  your  guest.  If  our 
particular  visitor  had  not  spent  all  his  time 
breaking  the  safe  open  he  might  have  been 
able  to  locate  our  spoons." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog,  dryly, 
"  that  you  did  not  add  to  the  impression 
the  futility  of  his  work  made  upon  his 
mind  a  short  note  of  admonition  indicating 
to  him  that  he  might  be  in  better  business." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Pedagog,"  said  the  Idiot, 

"  that  would  have  been  rude.     Invited  or 

otherwise,   the  man   was   a   guest   in   my 

house,  and  a  note  of  that  kind  would  have 

206 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

savored  of  sarcasm,  or,  if  not,  would  have 
placed  me  in  the  position  of  having  taken 
advantage  of  my  guest's  weakness  to  be 
facetious  at  his  expense." 

"  You  take  an  original  view  of  it,"  said 
Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  returned  the  Idiot. 
"  I  got  the  idea  from  a  Boston  girl.  Once 
when  she  and  her  sister-in-law  found  them 
selves  alone  at  night  in  a  huge  country- 
house  they  were  suddenly  overcome  with 
fear  of  burglars,  and  rather  than  run  any 
personal  risk  from  the  midnight  marauder 
they  left  a  big  card  on  top  of  the  safe  in 
scribed  with  these  words :  '  Dear  Sir, — The 
combination  of  this  safe  is  11-16-91. 
There  is  nothing  in  it.  If  you  must  have 
our  silver,  call  at  the  Shawmut  Safe  De 
posit  Company,  where  it  is  now  stored.' 
The  two  girls  were  cousins  of  mine." 

The  Schoolmaster  smiled  again.  "  There 
must  be  a  streak  of  your  particular  kind  of 
genius  running  all  through  your  family," 
said  he. 

"  True— there  is,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  I'm 
not  the  only  Idiot  in  my  tribe." 

"  And  the  second  burglar.  How  about 
him  ?"  asked  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  Oh,  he  was  easy,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  I 
297 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

compromised  with  him.  You  see,  I  met 
him  on  his  way  out.  I  was  coming  home 
late,  and  just  as  I  arrived  he  was  leaving. 
I  invited  him  back,  lit  the  gas  in  the  din 
ing-room,  and  asked  him  to  join  me  in  a 
bit  of  cold  tongue  and  a  bottle  of  beer.  He 
tried  to  shuffle  out  of  it,  but  when  I  said  I 
preferred  to  reason  with  him  rather  than 
have  him  arrested  he  sat  down,  and  we 
talked  the  situation  over.  I  discovered 
that  for  about  three  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  my  stuff  that  he  had  in  a  bag  slung  over 
his  shoulder  he  might  get  as  much  as  fifty 
dollars,  and  at  great  risk.  I  showed  him 
how  foolish  that  was,  and  offered  to  give 
him  forty  dollars  if  he'd  leave  the  stuff, 
so  saving  me  two  hundred  and  sixty  dol 
lars,  and  avoiding  all  trouble  for  himself. 
He  didn't  like  it  at  first,  but  under  the 
genial  influence  of  the  beer  and  the  cold 
tongue  and  my  conversation  he  finally 
yielded,  and  walked  out  of  my  house  with 
a  check  drawn  to  bearer  for  forty  dollars 
in  his  pocket." 

"  I  am  astonished  at  you !"  cried  Mr. 
Pedagog.     "  You  compounded  a  felony." 

"  Not    exactly,"    said    the    Idiot.    '  "  I 
should  have  done  so  if  I  hadn't  stopped 
payment  on  the  check  the  next  day." 
298 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog,  "  I  see !" 

"  All  I  lost  was  the  revenue-stamp  on 
the  check/'  said  the  Idiot. 

"  And  did  you  ever  hear  from  the  man 
again  ?" 

"  Yes/'  observed  the  Idiot.  "  I  met 
him  on  the  train  a  day  or  two  later — sat 
next  to  him  in  the  smoking-car,  in  fact." 

"  And  did  he  know  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  We  had  a  very  pleasant  chat  go 
ing  to  town.  He  said  he  was  moving  away 
from  here.  He  couldn't  stand  it,  he  said. 
He  was  going  to  work  in  some  new  field 
where  a  man  could  get  living  pay  for  his 
work.  Said  he'd  been  robbed  by  some  of 
our  best  people ;  what's  the  use  of  working 
for  nothing  ?  he  asked.  The  poor  man  was 
kept  down,  and  all  that  sort  of  talk." 

"  And  you  parted  friends  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  I  felt  rather 
sorry  for  him,  and  when  he  said  good-bye 
I  gave  him  a  cigar  and  a  five-dollar  bill, 
and  that  was  the  end  of  him.  I  have  since 
received  a  letter  from  him  in  which  he 
said  that  my  kindness  was  appreciated, 
and  that  I  could  leave  my  valuables  out 
on  the  lawn  all  night  hereafter  with  per 
fect  impunity.  i  There  isn't  a  thief  in  our 
whole  suburban  gang  would  be  mean 
299 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

enough  to  touch  it  after  your  kindness  to 
me/  he  wrote." 

"  Extraordinary !"  said  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  Very/7  said  the  Idiot.  "  Neverthe 
less,  I  have  not  taken  his  hint  about  leaving 
my  silver  out-of-doors,  and  have  worked  as 
hard  as  ever  on  my  patent  burglar-alarm." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  Have  you  a  new  idea  in 
that  line  ?"  asked  the  Schoolmaster. 

"  Yes/'  said  the  Idiot.  "  It  is  wholly 
novel.  It  is  designed  to  alarm  the  burg 
lar,  and  not  scare  the  people  in  the  house. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  like  that 
before  1" 

"  Never  !"  ejaculated  Mr.  Pedagog,  with 
enthusiasm.  "  How  is  it  to  work?" 

"  That,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  is  what  I  am 
trying  to  find  out.  When  I  do  I'll  let  you 
know,  Doctor." 


XVI 

CONCLUSION 


MR.  AND  MRS.  IDIOT 
REQUEST  THE  PLEASURE  OF  YOUR  COMPANY 

AT  DINNER 
ON  THURSDAY  EVENING,  MAY  31,  1900 

AT  HALF-AFTEU  SEVEN  O'CLOCK 
R.S.V.P.  LAST  CALL 


HANDSOMELY  engraved,  a  card  bearing 
the  above  inscription  was  sent  about  the 
middle  of  May  to  all  the  Idiot's  old  friends 
of  Mrs.  Smithers-Pedagog's  select  home 
for  gentlemen,  and  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
they  all  accepted. 

"  I  Avonder  what  the  dickens  he  means 
by  '  Last  Call/  said  Mr.  Brief  to  the  Ge 
nial  Old  Gentleman  who  occasionally  im- 
301 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

bibed.  "  Sounds  like  the  warning  of  the 
dining-car  porter  on  a  Pullman  train." 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  imagine/'  said  the 
other ;  "  and  what's  more,  I'm  content  to 
wait  and  find  out.  Of  course  you  are 
going  ?" 

"  I  am,  indeed/'  said  Mr.  Brief.  "  I'd 
travel  farther  than  that  for  the  pleasure 
of  an  hour  with  the  dear  old  boy,  and  par 
ticularly  now  that  he  has  so  good  a  cook. 
Dined  there  lately  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Genial  Old  Gentle 
man. 

"  Had  any  of  those  mulled  sardines  he 
gives  you  Sunday  nights  ?" 

"  More  than  was  good  for  me.  Ain't 
they  fine?"  said  the  Genial  Old  Gentle 
man,  smacking  his  lips  ecstatically. 

"  Immense !"  said  Mr.  Brief.  "  A  cook 
that  can  mull  sardines  like  that  is  worth 
her  weight  in  gold.  Where  do  you  sup 
pose  he  got  her  ?" 

"  Why,  he  married  her !"  cried  the  Ge 
nial  Old  Gentleman,  promptly.  "  Mrs, 
Idiot  cooks  those  herself,  on  the  chafing- 
dish.  Didn't  you  know  that  ?" 

"  No,"  said'  Mr.  Brief.  "  I  happened 
in  late  Sunday  night,  and  we  had  'em. 
They  were  so  awfully  good  I  didn't  do  a 
302 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

thing  but  eat,  and  forgot  to  ask  who  cook 
ed  'em." 

"  It's  the  way  of  the  world,"  sighed  the 
Genial  Old  Gentleman.  "  We  old  bache 
lors  have  to  get  along  on  what  comes  to 
us,  but  the  energetic  chap  who  goes  out 
into  the  world  and  marries  the  right  sort 
of  a  woman — Jove,  what  a  lucky  chap  he 
is!" 

"  There's  some  truth  in  that,"  agreed 
Mr.  Brief ;  "  but,  on  the  whole,  just  think 
what  a  terrible  thing  it  would  be  to  marry 
a  bad  cook,  and  to  have  to  eat  everything 
she  prepared  with  an  outward  show  of  de 
light  just  to  keep  peace  in  the  family." 

"  That's  your  cautious  lawyer's  view  of 
it,"  said  the  Genial  Old  Gentleman. 

"  Why  the  deuce  don't  you  get  married 
yourself,  then,"  said  Mr.  Brief.  "  If  you 
feel  that  way— 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  said  the  Genial  Old 
Gentleman.  "  Fact  is,  Brief,  old  man,  all 
I  should  ever  marry  for  would  be  the  com 
fort  of  a  home,  and  I  can  always  get  that 
by  going  up  to  the  Idiot's." 

The  other  invited  guests  were  no  less  per 
plexed  by  the  final  words  of  the  Idiot's 
invitation,  and  with  the  pleasure  of  ac 
cepting  was  mingled  an  agreeable  curiosity 
303 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

to  know  Avhat  was  meant  by  "  Last  Call." 
The  evening  came,  and  all  were  present.  It 
was  a  goodly  company,  and  by  special  fa 
vor  the  children  were  allowed  to  sit  up 
and  partake;  and,  what  was  more,  Mary, 
the  housemaid  of  the  old  days,  assisted  in 
the  serving  of  the  dinner. 

"  Seems  like  old  times,"  said  Mr. 
Whitechoker,  beaming  at  Mrs.  Pedagog 
and  smiling  pleasantly  at  Mary.  "  I  shall 
almost  expect  our  host  to  be  sarcastic." 

"  Sarcasm,  Mr.  Whitechoker,"  said  the 
Idiot,  unfolding  his  napkin,  "is  all  right 
in  its  place,  but  as  I  have  groAvn  older  I 
haven't  found  that  having  given  rein  to 
it  I  was  happier  afterwards.  Sometimes, 
no  doubt,  Mrs.  Pedagog  has  thought  me 
rude- 

"  Never !"  said  the  ancient  landlady. 

"  Well,  there's  something  worse  than 
having  others  think  you  rude,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "  That's  realizing  yourself  that 
you  have  been  so,  and  I  hope  Mrs.  Peda 
gog  will  accept  here  and  now  an  apology — 
a  blanket  apology — which  shall  cover  a 
multitude  of  past  sins." 

u  My  dear  Idiot,"  said  Mrs.  Pedagog, 
"  do  you  know  how  I  have  always  thought 
of  you  ?" 

304 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  As  a  son,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog.  "  And 
I  have  felt  towards  you  as  a  father." 

"  I  wonder  you  didn't  give  me  a  thrash 
ing  once  in  a  while,  then,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"  We  have  often  wished  to,"  observed 
Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  John !"  cried  Mrs.  Pedagog. 

"Well,  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Pedagog. 
"  Mrs.  Pedagog  has  all  the  amiable  weak 
ness  of  a  woman  towards  her  naughty 
boy.  Spank  him  next  time,  not  this." 

Everybody  laughed,  and  the  Idiot  rose 
from  his  place  and  walked  to  Mrs.  Peda- 
gog's  side  and  kissed  her. 

"  You're  a  nice  old  mommie,"  he  said, 
"  and  the  naughty  boy  loves  you.  He'll  be 
hanged  if  he'll  kiss  his  daddy,  though!" 
he  added,  with  a  glance  at  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  I  will,"  said  Mollie ;  and  she  did  so. 

The  old  Schoolmaster  returned  the  lit 
tle  girl's  salute  with  emphasis. 

"Bless  you, little  one!"  he  said, huskily. 
"  I  love  you  even  as  I  loved  your  papa." 

"  Pm  a-goin'  to  kiss  everybody,"  said 
Tommy ;  and  he  started  in  with  Mary  and 
put  his  litle  scheme  through  to  the  bitter 
end.  "  What  are  we  going  to  have  for 
dessert  ?"  he  added,  complacently,  as  he  re 
sumed  his  seat. 

u  305 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  Idiot/'  said  Mr.  Brief,  when  the  third 
course  had  been  served,  "  what  do  you 
mean  by  '  Last  Call  ?7 7 

"  We  are  going  to  give  up  housekeep 
ing,77  said  the  Idiot. 

"  No  trouble,  I  hope,7'  said  Mr.  White- 
choker. 

"Lots!77  ejaculated  the  Idiot.  "But 
not  very  troublesome  troubles.  The  fact 
is  we  intend  to  travel.77 

"To  travel,  eh?77  said  the  Genial  Old 
Gentleman.  "  Where  ?77 

"Abroad,77  replied  the  Idiot.  "We 
have  never  been  abroad,  you  know.  I7ve 
been  abroad,  and  Mrs.  Idiot  has  been 
abroad,  but  we  have  never  been  abroad. 
We  are  going  together  this  time,  and  we 
are  going  to  take  the  children,  and  for  a 
year  we  propose  to  see  Europe  under  the 
most  favorable  conditions.  I  think  that 
abroad  will  seem  a  little  different  if  we  go 
together.77 

"  Undoubtedly,77  said  Mr.  Whitechoker. 
"  But  London  is  a  cold,  godless  place.77 

"  It  is  if  you  go  alone,77  said  the  Idiot. 

"  And  Paris  is  vile,77  suggested  Mr. 
Brief. 

"  To  the  man  who  has  only  himself  to 
think  of,77  said  the  Idiot. 
306 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

"  And  Italy  is  dirty,"  said  the  Biblio 
maniac. 

"  There's  water  in  Venice,"  observed 
the  Idiot.  "  Not  very  clean  water,  to  be 
sure,  but  wet  enough  to  wash  the  edges  of 
the  sidewalks." 

"And  travel  is  uncomfortable," observed 
the  Poet. 

"  Admitted,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  Travel 
is  about  the  hardest  work  and  the  worst- 
paid  work  I  know  of,  but  we  cannot  help 
ourselves.  Now  that  we  are  rich  we  must 
accept  the  penalties  imposed  by  modern 
society  upon  the  wealthy.  You  never  knew 
a  rich  man  to  lead  a  comfortable  life,  dil 
you,  Mr.  Pedagog?" 

"  There  are  few  of  them  who  seem  to 
know  how,"  admitted  the  Schoolmaster. 
"  But— you  do." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  But  you 
see  I  do  not  wish  to  be  ostentatiously  differ 
ent  from  my  kind,  so  having  made  a  fort 
une  I  am  going  to  live  as  people  of  fort 
une  do  and  be  as  uncomfortable  as  I  know 
how." 

"  I   don't   understand   about  this   fort 
une,"   said  Mr.   Brief. .    "  Have  you  run 
up  against  a  rich  uncle  somewhere,  or  is 
this  sudden  wealth  the  result  of  your  in- 
307 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

ventions,  concerning  which  we  have  heard 
so  much  lately  ?" 

"Neither,"  replied  the  Idiot.  "The 
fact  is,  I  made  an  investment  some  years 
ago  in  a  certain  stock,  for  which  I  paid 
twenty-three.  I  sold  it  three  weeks  ago 
for  one  hundred  and  sixty-three,  clearing 
one  hundred  and  forty  dollars  each  on  a 
thousand  shares." 

The  Poet  gasped. 

"  One  hundred  and  forty  thousand  dol 
lars  profit!'7  cried  Mr.  Whitechoker. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Idiot,  calmly,  "  that's 
about  the  size  of  it.  Terrible,  isn't  it? 
Here  I  was  a  happy  man ;  content  to  stay 
at  home  and  toil  eight  hours  a  day  for  a 
small  stipend ;  living  in  tolerable  comfort, 
and  nothing  to  worry  over.  All  of  a  sud 
den  this  thing  happens,  and  like  all  other 
men  of  wealth  I  must  become  a  wander 
er.  I  shudder  to  think  of  what  might 
have  happened  if  I'd  made  a  million ;  I 
shouldn't  have  had  a  home  at  all  then." 

The  guests  looked  at  their  host  with 
amazement.  To  most  of  them  he  had 
reached  the  supreme  moment  of  his  idiocy. 

"  Ahem !"  said  the  Poet.  "  I  fail  to  see 
why." 

^  Look  at  the  ways  of  the  millionaire  and 
308 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

you'll  see/'  observed  the  Idiot,  suave 
ly.  "  Given  his  million  he  gives  up  his 
house  and  builds  himself  a  small,  first- 
class  hotel  in  some  big  city,  which  for 
the  greater  part  of  the  year  is  occupied 
by  servants.  He  next  erects  a  country 
palace  at  Lenox  or  at  Newport.  This  he 
calls  a  cottage,  though  it  usually  looks 
more  like  a  public  library  or  a  hospital 
or  a  club-house.  Then  he  builds  himself 
a  camp,  with  stained-glass  windows,  in 
the  Adirondacks,  and  has  to  float  a  small 
railroad  in  order  to  get  himself  and  his 
wife's  trunks  into  camp.  Shortly  after 
these  follows  a  bungalow  modelled  after  a 
French  chateau,  somewhere  in  the  South, 
and  then  a  yacht  warranted  to  cross  the 
ocean  in  ten  days,  and  to  produce  sea 
sickness  twelve  hours  sooner  than  the  reg 
ular  ocean-steamer,  becomes  one  of  the  ne 
cessities  of  life.  Result,  he  never  lives 
anywhere.  To  occupy  all  his  residences, 
camps,  and  bungalows  he  has  to  keep  eter 
nally  on  the  move,  and  when  he  thinks  he 
needs  a  trip  to  Europe  he  has  his  yacht 
got  ready  and  sends  it  over,  going  himself 
on  a  fast  steamer.  He  meets  his  yacht  at 
Southampton,  and  orders  the  captain  to 
proceed  directly  to  some  Mediterranean 
309 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

port,  going  himself,  meanwhile,  to  London. 
After  a  month  of  London  he  goes  to  Paris, 
and  thence  to  the  Mediterranean  port, 
where,  after  steaming  aboard  of  the  yacht 
for  three  or  four  days,  he  sends  the  boat 
back  to  New  York  and  returns  himself 
by  the  regular  liner.  Oh,  it's  a  terrible 
thing  to  be  a  millionaire  and  have  no 
where  to  lay  one's  head,  with  every  poor 
er  man  envying  you,  many  hating  you, 
and  hands  raised  against  you  every 
where  !" 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  assembled 
company  properly  expressed  their  appre 
ciation  of  the  millionaire's  hard  lot  by  si 
lence. 

"  The  scheme  has  its  advantages,"  ob 
served  Mrs.  Idiot. 

"  Some,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  But  think, 
my  dear,  of  the  town  house  with  thirty-nine 
servants;  the  Newport  house  with  thirty- 
four  ;  the  camp  with  sixty,  including  game 
keepers  and  guides ;  the  bungalow  with 
thirty  more,  and  the  yacht  with  a  captain, 
a  crew,  stewards,  stewardesses,  and  a  cook 
you  can't  get  away  from  without  jumping 
overboard.  Just  think  how  that  would 
multiply  your  troubles.  You  would  come 
to  me  from  time  to  time  and  ask  me  how 
310 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

I  could  expect  you  to  discharge  seven  but 
lers  and  four  cooks  in  one  morning,  and 
no  doubt  you'd  request  me  sometimes  to 
stop  in  at  the  intelligence  office  on  my  way 
home  and  employ  a  dozen  housemaids  for 
you." 

"  But  you  would  have  a  manager  for 
all  this,"  suggested  Mrs.  Pedagog. 

"  That's  the  point,"  observed  the  Idiot. 
"  We'd  have  to  have  a  manager,  and  for 
my  part  I  shouldn't  relish  being  managed. 
What  chance  would  Mrs.  Idiot  have 
against  a  manager  ahead  of  an  army  of 
servants  of  such  magnitude  ?  We  have 
more  than  we  can  keep  in  subjection  as  we 
stand  now,  with  this  one  small  house.  If 
it  wasn't  for  Mary,  who  keeps  an  eye  on 
things,  I  don't  know  what  we  should  do." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  you're  rich,  pa,"  said 
Tommy ;  "  you  can  increase  my  allow 
ance." 

"  And  I  can  have  a  pony,"  lisped  Mollie. 

"Alas!  Poor  children!" cried  the  Idiot. 
"  That  is  the  saddest  part  of  wealth.  In 
stead  of  bringing  the  little  ones  up  our 
selves,  to  be  wholly  fashionable  it  will  be 
necessary  to  sublet  the  contract  to  a  com 
mittee  of  tutors  and  governesses.  The 
obligations  of  social  life  hereafter  will  re- 
311 


THE    IDIOT    AT    HOME 

quire  that  we  meet  our  children  by  ap 
pointment  only,  arid  that  when  they  dine 
they  shall  eat  in  solitary  grandeur  until 
they  become  so  polished  in  manners  that 
their  parents  may  once  more  formally  wel 
come  them  at  table.  All  the  good  old  dem 
ocratic  ways  of  the  domestic  republic  are 
now  to  be  set  aside.  Tommy,  instead  of 
yelling  for  a  buckwheat-cake  at  the  top 
of  his  lungs,  upon  our  return  will  request 
a  butler  in  choicest  French  to  hand  him 
a  pate  de  foie  gras;  and  dear  little  Mollie 
will  have  to  give  up  attracting  the  wait 
ress7  attention  by  shying  an  olive-pit  at 
her  and  imperiously  summon  her  by 
means  of  an  electric  buzzer  set  to  buzzing 
with  her  toe." 

"  Mercy !  What  a  picture  of  woe !" 
cried  Mr.  Pedagog. 

"  Not  altogether  true,  is  it  ?"  suggested 
the  Doctor. 

"  Have  you  ever  visited  Newport  ?"  ask 
ed  the  Idiot. 

"  No,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  never." 

"  Well,  don't,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  unless 
you  wish  to  look  upon  that  picture — a  pict 
ure  of  life  whence  childhood  is  abolished ; 
where  blase  little  swells  take  the  place  of 
lively  small  boys,  and  diminutive  grand 
312 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

duchesses,  clad  in  regal  garb,  have  sup 
planted  the  little  daughters  who  bring 
smiles  and  sunshine  into  the  life  of  the 
common  people.  Ah,  my  friends,"  the 
Idiot  continued,  with  a  shake  of  his  head, 
"  there  are  sad  sights  to  be  seen  in  this 
world,  but  I  know  of  none  sadder  than 
these  rich  little  scions  of  the  American 
aristocracy  in  whose  veins  the  good  red 
blood  of  a  not  very  remote  ancestry  has 
turned  blue  through  too  much  high  living 
and  too  little  real  living." 

"  I  should  think  you'd  take  that  hun 
dred  and  forty  thousand  dollars  and  throw 
it  into  the  sea,"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"  That  would  be  wicked  waste,"  observed 
the  Idiot.  "  I  propose  to  use  it  to  win 
back  the  good  old  home-life,  and  the  best 
way  to  perpetuate  that  is  to  leave  it  for  a 
time  and  travel.  When  you  have  travelled 
and  seen  how  uncomfortable  others  are, 
and  discovered  how  uncomfortable  you  are 
while  travelling,  nothing  can  exceed  the 
bliss  of  getting  back  to  the  first  simple 
principles  of  the  real  home." 

"As  a  sensible  man, why  don't  you  stay 
here,  then?"  queried  the  Poet. 

"  Because,"  said  the  Idiot,  "  if  I  stay 
ed  here  with  that  hundred  and  forty  thou- 
313 


THE   IDIOT   AT   HOME 

sand  dollars  on  my  mind  I  should  nurse 
it,  and  in  a  short  while  I'd  become  a  mill- 
ionaire,  and  such  a  misfortune  as  that  I 
shall  never  invite.  We  shall  go  abroad 
and  spend— 

"  Not  all  of  it,  I  hope  ?"  said  Mr.  White- 
choker. 

"  No,"  replied  the  Idiot.  "  But  enough 
of  it  to  mitigate  the  horrors  of  our  condi 
tion  while  absent." 

And  so  it  was  that  Castle  Idiot  was 
closed,  and  that  for  a  time  at  least  "  The 
Idiot  at  Home  "  became  a  thing  of  the 
past.  Wherever  heandhis  small  family  may 
be,  may  I  not  bespeak  for  him  the  kindly, 
even  affectionate,  esteem  of  those  who  have 
followed  him  with  me  through  these 
pages  ?  He  has  his  faults ;  they  are  many 
and  manifest,  for  he  has  never  shown  the 
slightest  disposition  to  conceal  them,  but, 
as  Mrs.  Pedagog  remarked  to  me  the  other 
night,  "  He  has  a  large  heart,  and  it  is 
in  the  right  place.  If  he  only  wouldn't 
talk  so  much !" 


THE    END 


BY  MAKK  TWAIN 


THE  MAN  THAT  CORRUPTED  HADLEYBURG, 
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